


Black Smoke, Dark Light

by Hikaru9Yume



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec saving Magnus, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Magnus Bane, Dark Magnus Bane, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Magnus Bane, Recovery, Sad Magnus Bane, Slow Burn, Warlock Magnus Bane, introspective, seasons au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2018-12-25 00:51:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 25,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12024621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikaru9Yume/pseuds/Hikaru9Yume
Summary: "The darkness suited him.It concealed the way his lips were curling, lazily, into a mischievous grin; or the eerie glint of his golden eyes, that reflected the joy his heart was feeling.The darkness seemed like an invisible cloak; he imagined tendrils of black smoke dancing around his feet..."





	1. Black Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergent. Angry!Magnus gave me feels and this happened. Timeline: season 1. Alec will come to save the day soon!

The darkness suited him.

It concealed the way his lips were curling, lazily, into a mischievous grin; or the eerie glint of his golden eyes, that reflected the joy his heart was feeling.

The darkness seemed like an invisible cloak; he imagined tendrils of black smoke dancing around his feet, crawling their way on the walls that surrounded him, seeping inside the cracks of the pavement. He could see it playing with itself, stretching and embracing everything, caressing his hands, his back, messing up his hair, while covering the whole abandoned alley. It continued, undisturbed, until it disappeared around the corner.

The darkness was total, and he was enjoying it immensely.

He couldn’t stop grinning. He loved the feeling. Loved how the absence of light made him feel hidden and revealed at the same time; how his magic responded at the taste of the darkness around him; how his heart suddenly started fluttering in his chest, as if it wanted to be caressed by the black smoke too.

One small movement.

One step.

Stop.

The other leg. Another step.

It was both difficult and easy to move; the shadows seemed to resist him and welcome him at the same time. He continued, slowly, deliberately slowly, toward the exit of the alley, savouring the smell of blood in the air, touching the blackness with his fingers, while raising his right arm. His grin was always on his face, even when he called for his magic, his long, black coat whispering because of the wind and moving around him like distorted wings.

The darkness receded, unwillingly, resisting but then kneeling: his magic manifested. His tongue licked his lips when he caught, from the corner of his eyes, the colour blooming from his fingers: no more the different shades of angry red, light and dark, devouring each other to lull his hunger of revenge of mere minutes ago, but blue now, the calm, reassuring, familiar blue of the sky and of his mind. It was as if the cobbles of the alley absorbed the bright red like a sponge, mixing the dark liquid leaking from the bodies with the twilight of his magic.

He hated and loved that colour. He hated it when his body stiffened, his mind outraged, his jaw clenching painfully, emotions taking over and controlling his movements, his decisions.  
He loved it when it exploded on its target, catching, exploding, draining, consuming, withering.

After that, there was a moment of… pause. How he dreaded that fleeting little second. He noticed, lately, how something was different. How his magic was different, while transforming from the angry red to the soothing blue. There, in between. There, when he wasn’t in control. When his mind slipped free of the cage he created for forbidden feelings, emotions he didn’t understand and wanted nothing to do with.

There.

Green?

No.

Hazel.

He stopped, suddenly. His arm stiff, his grin disappearing slowly.

It didn’t happen tonight... Did it?

He was too focused on the lovely feeling around him. His anger melting away, his heart cleansing. His enemies didn’t even scream. Only darkness, and quiet, with the weak sound of the walls and the pavement drinking all the blood. He didn’t hide what he left behind. He needed to send a message. He needed _them_ to know he was coming after the rest of their little group. The three bodies were only the beginning.

They pushed too much. It was time he showed them they were playing with fire.

He was too focused on his mission. And he didn’t notice. His heart was still fluttering, but for a different reason. The adrenaline of the fight gone; the sweet taste of revenge turning sour. Darkness stilled, as if sensing his change of mood. His hair hung, soft, on his forehead. He hitched to put it back in place. No cracks were allowed in his appearance. People couldn’t see what he hid.

And yet.

Hazel.

Like the eyes of th-

No.

No. His heart clenched painfully, his mind devouring the thought, hiding it away. Forbidden. Dangerous.

No. It didn’t happen. It would never happen again.

His fingers moved, forming a fist. His arm lowered itself, going back to his side. His head moved back, chin high. His legs removed their movements.

One step.

Another step.

Magnus sliced through the darkness, leaving his message behind. Someone was already coming, alerted. He disappeared in the shadows.

The game has started.


	2. Red Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was as if someone had cursed him. As if someone had reached inside his mind, thrashing and destroying the doors behind which he had hidden dangerous and hurtful memories. Light was pouring through different holes, his walls of safety trembling with fatigue.
> 
> What was happening?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter, another scene. Timeline: season 2 (still AU). It may be a bit confusing, but it will get clearer in the (supposed) next chapters, when I'll dive into the memory of their first meeting(s). Enjoy!

He watched, mesmerized, his own blood dripping from his fingers.

His left arm was stiff against his side; he could feel the rivulets of blood staining his skin, dropping like tears, until they escaped the warmth of his body, splashing onto the pavement of the alley.

He had managed, somehow with his other arm, to reach behind his back and snap half of the arrow embedded in his shoulder. He remembered clutching the shaft of the arrow with his right hand, and then relaxing his fingers, dropping it next to him as soon as he had found this alley, empty and dark enough. He remembered the sound it had made, hitting the ground, a soft _cling_ , reverberating through him. Making his right hand shake, uncontrolled. He remembered hearing the wet noise of his own blood, much louder than the shaft falling, much scarier. And strange.

He knew. He knew the archer missed his heart on purpose.

He had watched his eyes, his stare fixed on him, watching him, calculating, stopping in the middle of the street while his group of friends were too occupied to kill their enemies. The demons and his darkness had crawled around him, parting their ways at the last minute as if closing in on the man was too difficult.

It had hurt them.

Magnus had stopped bathing in his own magic; he had stilled the rush, his mind going blank while his eyes devoured the aura of light surrounding the archer.  
The colour was so different from the black that he favoured. _They_ had made him love the darkness, which looked so much like the tincture of the night. However, he still preferred starred nights better, not those empty and cloudy skies; the void they delivered was too real: he feared it would suck in him, never letting him go. Nights with stars were different: the little dots occupied his mind, reflected on his eyes, made him think of different times, past, fleeting moments that he thought he had forgotten.

He had seen the same colour of the stars around that man. The same soothing colour of a bright night, not too sharp to hurt his eyes, yet full of light and distraction. Full of promises.

The Shadowhunter archer was concentrated on him. And he was, stupidly, enthralled. He didn’t notice how the man was taking aim, his arms straining with fatigue, his mind, however, still sharp.

Magnus had snapped out of his stupor the moment the man’s eyes had assessed his body, searing through his heart, then adjusting up. As if he already knew where his arrow would hit.

Hazel.

The archer’s eyes were hazel.

Instincts had kicked in, his mind still blank. His body had turned, his arms raising to call for the darkness and nudging the demons to withdraw, to go; their mission was accomplished anyway. He had been so sure darkness wouldn’t fail him, that his magic would protect him. But it was like the arrow carried the light aura of its owner.

A thud.

A burning sensation on his shoulder.

His left arm going stiff.

He blinked, recoiling from the memory.

His blood was still marking his clothes and skin. He watched, with irony, how the pavement of the alley was drinking the liquid, remembering how another dark street had bathed with the blood of the his enemies just last week.

He exhaled a long breath, leaning the right side of his body onto the wall for support. His head moved back, resting on the concrete, his eyes closing. He tried to rein his heart in, slowing down the delirious _thud_ _thud_ inside his chest.

Why was this war different than the others he had fought?

He followed orders. He fought. He always succeeded. They knew he was the best; they had made sure of it.

So, why? Why couldn’t his intellect suddenly follow his instincts?

It was as if someone had cursed him. As if someone had reached inside his mind, thrashing and destroying the doors behind which he had hidden dangerous and hurtful memories. Light was pouring through different holes, his walls of safety trembling with fatigue.

What was happening?

He opened his eyes, wary. His body was getting heavy, his thoughts trying to tear him apart from all directions. He should get to safety; he should find a way to heal the injury; he should reassess his magic, his darkness, to understand why it had failed him; he should report the details of the mission.

A shudder rocked his tired limbs when thinking about returning _there_.

He finally focused his gaze on what was ahead of him. His face was turned up, illuminated by the silvery brilliance of the moon.

It was a starry night.

His eyes moved, restlessly, from one star to another.

The dark colour of the sky changed, lightening, the blue bleeding onto itself, while a deep green chased it away, devouring the black. Around each star, he could see a small brown stain, embracing the small dots.

His body shuddered once more.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t go there, again. He had fought, and he had lost _that_ battle. It had hurt too much. His mind couldn’t take another change. Another whisper. Another doubt. It would crush him; he would go insane.

He closed his eyes to cut off the dangerous colour of the sky.

He let himself slide down the wall careful not to thrust the remnant of the arrow into his shoulder, his legs stretching in front of him, smearing the pool of blood that had formed during the last minutes.

Behind his closed eyelids, no black, nor hazel.

He could only see dark red. The colour of his nightmares. The colour that had stained his body the last time he had tried to run away.

It was too late for him.


	3. Green Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he closes his eyes again now, he can still see the lightning, appearing for mere seconds, stretching through the minute, and disappearing. Leaving a hazel shadow behind.
> 
> He can recall every single instant of that moment.
> 
> Their first meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This third chapter is probably the most confusing of them all. I know. Have faith, the next chapter will finally answer some questions.  
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> The italics parts are Magnus's memory.

He is breathing hard.

Walking around the city, with the shaft of the arrow still embedded in his shoulder, bleeding all over the street, is taking a toll on him.

He is breathing too hard.

Magnus stops, leaning against the wall on his right side, forehead on the cold concrete, the soothing sound of the lake in his ears. The docks are usually deserted in the deep night; he can finally think about what to do. His time is ticking away, every minute, every second. He has to go back.

 

 

_It was like lightning._

_There was no other way to explain it._

_Like a dark sky, full of heavy and menacing clouds, eating the clear, beautiful navy blue away; they were opening their airy jaws wide, devouring the defenseless stars that were trying to lighten the night. Like black smoke._

_And then, the lightning._

_A single, defined line of light. It pierced through the clouds as if they were nothing, no dark entities, no evil enemies. It burned down the smoke just around its trail, with no care nor fear. The eye of his mind could see the bright light it had brought: in its heart a piercing white fire. Its outline had been dark green, the electricity promising a manifestation._

_Second only to the power of the light, was the silence._

_No thunder followed. No shrieking, no wailing, no despair. The dark clouds were withdrawing, slowly, painfully, their enormous mouths open as if screaming in anguish._

_He heard nothing._

 

 

Magnus opens his eyes, although he can’t remember closing them. The bright pain of his shoulder keeps on making him focus on the archer who had shot him.

Their first meeting had been like that single lightning.

If he closes his eyes again now, he can still see the lightning, appearing for mere seconds, stretching through the minute, and disappearing. Leaving a hazel shadow behind.

He can recall every single instant of that moment.

Their first meeting.

 

 

_His thoughts were foggy. He had given in. His mind was at their service; the joyful, past memories locked inside a door, hidden in the most intimate part of his heart. He had slammed that door, renouncing his last drop of sanity and morality._

_He was a demon. Like_ them _. And that night, he was out hunting. With_ them _. He had a book to retrieve, spells to decipher, blood to sacrifice. For_ them _._

_They had been drawn to a secluded alley. They were all smelling the strong fragrance of their favourite red liquid and licked their lips mindlessly._

_And then, a voice. The archer’s voice._

_“…they treat them like abominations. Don’t call them, Iz. We can deal with him.”_

_“I know, Jace. Stop that. I know. Look, Iz, we think more are coming. Just be sure to be on the other side of the portal we’re opening. Please. I want you to have this mad-driven warlock, not the Clave. They’ll just throw the body away and declare all the remaining sane warlocks rogue. Please. Okay? Okay.”_

_“Raj, don’t. He was a person before all this. They didn’t have any choice.”_

_His mind blazed with that single lightning. The rustle of multiple memories._

_Abominations_.

 _Mad_.

 _Warlock_.

 _Body_.

 _Rogue_.

 _Was_.

_He stopped moving. The demons and darkness surrounded him, embracing him, going beyond him, caressing. They didn’t push, though. The mission had been a success. No need for him anymore._

_And he had stopped._

_He heard the whisper of a single voice._

_He glimpsed black clothes, a tall figure crouched over a dead body._

_And then. Hazel eyes._

_There was suddenly silence in his mind._

_But he could still hear the sound of his heart being torn apart by the light. How his body was suddenly heavy. So, so heavy. How a small part of his mind, where the shadow of the lightning was still lingering, had started to clear, painfully. Slowly._

_A single memory of the past._

_A single image of a woman and a dagger in her chest._

 

 

Magnus snaps his eyes open. He is breathing hard, his jaw clenched.

No, no, no, _no_. No memories. Too dangerous. Too agonizing.

He has to stop. He has to stop thinking about it, thinking about those words, thinking about _him_ and that fatal first meeting of theirs.

He doesn’t know him. That man was just a Shadowhunter, one among many. They met three times in his entire immortal life. Once, in that dark alley with the dead, mad warlock. The second from afar. And the third time, just hours ago. And he shot him. Why does he keep on thinking about him?

 

 

_When his mind started to clear, he fled. Fast, mindless. Scared. Like a coward. He turned and ran, his instinct nudging him towards the opposite way the demons had crawled._

_Because, while his mind was bathing in the warmth and piercing colour of the light, his eyes were registering a movement. A tall body stretching from the crouched position. A bow being clutched. A shock of black hair. Stiffness. Hazel searching for his red._

_He fled._

_Like a coward._

 

 

Magnus finally releases a shaky breath, his body responding to his command. He stands up, his body cold from the lack of movement, his mind slack from the unsafe reminiscence.

Coward _and_ stupid. Being mesmerized by words, as if the past haunting him isn’t enough. No, now, he had to get shot by an arrow. Left behind in the human and Shadowhunter world, out in the open. And he is still here, hidden in the shadows near the docks, remembering things and _someone_ he shouldn’t, instead of going back _there_. _They_ are surely waiting for him, for his report, for the details of the mission and-

He stops struggling against the wall, his right hand flying to his thundering heart, then up, to his still bleeding shoulder.

His eyes, on the lake. A dark blue lake. Waves moving, like haunting clouds, like black smoke.

And in the middle, a light. No, the reflection of a light.

His face moves up, towards the sky. The moon. A big, white, waxing crescent moon. Reflected on the dark water of the lake. Tearing the obscurity apart, leaving a sign behind.

Like his lightning.

Another shaky exhale. He had stopped breathing, enthralled and terrified by that view. Silence here, like _that_ time. Under his hand, his heart is threatening to bolt out of his chest.

He is doomed.

Magnus tears his eyes from the vision, his legs finally moving. His body turns right, and after what seems like hours, he finally resumes his walking. One step, pause. Another step, pause.

He is becoming careless. He is walking on thin ice once again.

He notices how deep the night is. No. It is morning. And soon, sunrise. And he is wandering aimlessly, bleeding in the hidden streets of the docks, while his mind is freeing itself of an old curse, and his heart is screaming at him to stop, to reconsider, to think about his archer, to remember those days, his old friends, his moth-

He is doomed.

Because this is the first sunset he is going to witness after years of _service_. The first dawn after years of madness. The first _real_ light he would glimpse after years of darkness.

He is doomed.


	4. Brown Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He had slid down heavily on the ground, stretching his long legs in front of him, his arms lifeless, resting beside him and his thighs. His back hunching forward, trying not to bother the residual of the arrow still burrowed in his shoulder.
> 
> He had been so tired.
> 
> Tired and cold.
> 
> So he had stopped, waiting for the inevitable to happen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Season 2B AU now. Alec is definitely the Head of the Institute, and the war is still going on.  
> Some things are cleared up; I hope you're all less confused!

There is a wide pool of his blood on the ground, getting larger and larger by the minute.

He has been sitting in the same position for what feels like hours. He had tried to walk away and put some distance between himself and the docks, and had failed in doing so. He had managed somehow to stumble through a complicated labyrinth of dark alleys and then he had collapsed here, facing the placid lake, watching as the darkness melted away to the light.

He had slid down heavily on the ground, stretching his long legs in front of him, his arms lifeless, resting beside him and his thighs. His back hunching forward, trying not to bother the residual of the arrow still burrowed in his shoulder.

He had been so tired.

Tired and cold.

So he had stopped, waiting for the inevitable to happen.

He had tried to watch the sunrise, with both trepidation and fear. He isn’t used to light anymore; darkness had been his loyal companion for… how long? He doesn’t remember. He only knows his darkness had failed since _that_ fatal meeting. And yesterday night… It just disappeared.

There was no black around him while he struggled to watch the yellow rays kissing the surface of the lake, the dirty streets and the sleepy city.

He couldn’t take it. It was too bright. So he had tried to bask in the brilliance of it, tried to catch some warmth at last.

Useless.

He was so cold.

He _is_ so cold.

Has he ever been warm before? He doesn’t remember that either.

It’s morning now.

He tries to steal a glance at the sky. He is getting used to the colour. The sun is up, not hot, not warm, just _there_ , luminous, yet surrounded by heavy clouds. He thinks it will rain. There is a soft rustle of wind all around him, where he can still feel it, messing with his black hair and making it fall over his eyes, rustling over his ruined jacket as if playing.

Yes, he can feel it somehow. Even the gentle wind is cold.

He knows he should move.

He had done something stupid, after watching the sun rising. He had tried to convey a portal. Tried to escape. The damned light reminded him of the past; of joyful memories; of people he had cared about; of how he had struggled at first, because he had missed being… _here_ ; of sad words about monsters and an archer he should forget.

He had hurt. And he had tried to flee again, like the coward he is.

But his magic is depleted. His darkness has abandoned him.

He had tried and a tiny sparkle had answered. A tiny blue wave, winking at him, mocking him, and disappearing.

He knows it’s over now.

And a sense of peace has descended on his mind.

It’s finally over.

No more struggling, no more missions, no more killing, no more loss, no more confusion.

He would pay for what he had done, in control or not, and it would be over.

Because if the injury doesn’t kill him first, the Shadowhunters will. The magic he had called had probably raised an alarm in that Institute of theirs. Someone would come, and they would finish him.

What would be left of him, anyway.

He sighs, curving his back more, trying to be as small as possible and find some source of heat. He turns his face down, his eyes fixing on the pool of blood.

It’s larger now. The liquid is surrounding his hand, bathing his leg and trailing further.

He frowns, looking at his left arm. It’s still there, but he can’t feel it. The left part of his body seems gone, detached from the rest of him. His heart is gone as well. He can hear a frantic _thudding_ somewhere faraway; but it can’t be his heart. He has none.

He glances back at his blood. It’s mixing with some fresh water, a small puddle from recent rain. It’s like the lake somehow. There’s a distorted reflection on it. He can see black hair. His. And a pair of eyes staring back at him.

He should be surprised, yet he isn’t.

He knew before, he _knows_ now, that warlocks turned rogue and mad have red eyes. It symbolizes the power of the Greater Demons’ spell on them. The soul is destroyed. The heart burned. The mind blank.

His eyes had been like that. They were like that until that night, where he had met his archer the first time. Until yesterday, after he had surrendered to the darkness once again.

They still should be like that: crimson, mixing with the colour of his blood.

Brown.

His eyes are brown now.

From what he can make out, normal, intense brown. Not even golden.

He closes them, hating the sight.

He should have died. Along with his warlock family, whose only fault was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Along with his warlock brothers, who turned mad because of the Dark Spell, who had been erased by the Shadowhunters protecting the human and the Shadow world.

He should end it himself here and now. Before his body wastes away, before the Shadowhunters find him.

He should take it into his own hands and thrust the damn shaft of the arrow deeper into his back, tearing his body apart, cleansing it with the blood he has left. He wouldn’t scream in respect of the people who had while he had killed them, who had begged him to stop even though he couldn’t, since he had no control over his mind anymore. He would pray his soul had been freed and relieved of his suffering that faraway day, when he had decided to stop struggling and to surrender to the darkness. He should check if he still has a heart, somehow; if he does, he should claw his chest open and take it out for his enemies to have it destroyed.

He should.

But he is so tired.

He knows his head is dropping, his mind going quiet, lulled by the waves of the lake. He tries to stay awake; he has to witness his own end.

When he opens his eyes, however, there is something different.

He waits for the black dots in his sight to disappear, for his head to stop spinning, so he can understand what is happening.

There is something warm on the left side of his body.

Blissful, gentle warmth.

He moves his face towards the source, and blinks.

The first thing he notices is how the green and the brown mingle into each other, embracing like lovers. They make such a unique and beautiful colour together, it can’t be real. There is a name for it. What is it?

Ah, yes. Hazel.

Those eyes are hazel.

And they are looking straight at him, not at his same level, but just an inch above.

There is someone crouched next to him, looking at him.

Warm, he’s so warm.

“Are you alright?”

A soothing voice. His words shouldn’t be so soft and his eyes shouldn’t be so gentle for him. It’s not fair.

The last thing Magnus remembers before succumbing to the peaceful blackness of his eyelids, is the concern on a handsome face, and the warmth of a hand on his cheek.


	5. Blue Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is someone with him.
> 
> His hazel-eyed archer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline: always 2B from now on.  
> Let me know what you think!

There is fire and he is burning.

They are torturing him again, with blaze, blindness and dark promises that everything will be over soon if only he succumbs. Give in. Let them in. Desert his mind, forfeit his soul and it will be over.

He is so cold.

He shouldn’t be, he knows. His body is surely scorching, his mouth open in an endless and soundless scream of anguish.

Yet he’s so cold. And alone.

There is an eerie stillness. Too much silence. His body detached from his mind, blazing away, like a carcass forgotten by crows. His thoughts are slow, almost blank, focused on something far away, on someone too distant.

Giving up. Dying in the deep blue darkness.

It’s finally there. His time. It’s over. The torture should cease, ending in the coveted last suffering of his immortal entity. And then peace.

It should be over, but it’s not. There is a shiver, a shudder, and the burning is over. His body is dead. His mind is frozen.

 

***

 

He had always been aware that something was wrong, that something was missing inside him. But he had tried not to think of it, to avoid searching for the missing part of his existence, too afraid to look inside himself, too afraid to discover the truth.

If he thinks back on those months – _or years?_ – he had been controlled by darkness, he can find only one positive side of it all: the ignorance. His mind had not been his own, it was controlled by _them_ , and it had been blissfully unaware. It had concentrated on missions, on delivering, on avoiding their torture and their punishments if he didn’t complete a task; nothing else. There hadn’t been a life outside of serving.

Blissfully unaware.

 

He should be dead.

But he’s not.

There is a flicker in his consciousness, and he knows his mind is alive. Waking up, painfully, opening those little doors he carefully crafted for hidden memories and dangerous thoughts.

 

His first instinct is to be angry.

He was and is ready. Aren’t 400 years enough? Aren’t endless moments of sadness and tears over forgotten lovers and friends enough? Aren’t months of mindless damage enough?

Apparently not.

Maybe _this_ is his punishment. His body dead, his mind alive, devouring itself, going through every detail of his life, of how things could have been different, of how he had loved, given and hoped, of how he had decided to be a decent person, even though he could have walked a darker path and be the abomination he had been called when he was a child.

His punishment. Knowing how everyone else is going on with their lives, forgetting Magnus Bane has ever existed, an insignificant half human never loved by anyone.

Blissfully unaware.

Yes. This is his punishment. Realizing everything.

That he is alone. Always has been. That he had given up because he had no anchors, because he knew no one would have sacrificed everything to search for him, to find him. He had been so sure he didn’t need any saving, that he could take care of himself until the love of his life would arrive and capture his heart, whomever he or she is.

That he is cold. And forever will be. Inside, his chest empty and his soul gone. Outside, embraced only by the silence and the ghostly blue light of those doors, crumpling one by one, slowly, excruciatingly, freeing those forbidden parts of his life, ready to drown him.

Because in the end he will drown, strangled by his own guilt.

 

***

 

“...inished. Izzy and Jace are covering me, since they are the only ones who know. I’ll come as often as I can to...”

“...dients for other healing potions and spells. It’s better if he’s not alone. Actually, I think he is better when you’re here. The fever has been getting down since the night you stayed in.”

“Do you think he can hear us?”

A sigh. “I don’t know. Some people say they do when they come out of it. Others say it was just a long sleep.”

“Well, then, better think he does. You never know.”

A movement on the right. A scratch. A metallic cling.

“Thank you. Do you… Do you think he’ll remember you? Or even himself?”

Silence. “If he doesn’t, I’ll kick his-”

“Catarina.”

Another tired sigh. “I hope he does, Alec. I hope he does.”

 

***

 

His second instinct is to face it.

It’s fair. It’s the right thing to do. He needs to face and confront everything he has ever felt and done, beg for those innocents he had slayed to forgive him, to be peaceful now and bask in the way he is suffering.

Surely, his battered, freezing body is a reminder of that, of the stillness they are experiencing in death; his burning mind a warning of what his magic could do and has done.

His anger has sizzled away. His loneliness ever present, squeezing his chest breathless, marrying the cold in a terrifying torment. His hate is a dull sensation.

He hates everything he has ever done: the wasted moments; the occasions when his foolish, hopeful heart had thought he had found _the one_ ; the words he had never uttered because of fear; the spells he had wasted on frivolous things. The most, he hates his magic. The havoc it had caused, the killing it had brought, the misery it had conveyed. He remembers struggling with the idea of being a monster, although people had called him so. Now, he has no doubts. He is, had been, and forever will be one.

 

***

 

Someone is banging on the door with such force, he is sure they will destroy it at any moment. _They_ will come in, capture him again and take him back _there_.

Except.

The banging is inside him. It’s in his head.

And it hurts.

A dipping movement on his right. He feels his body shift a little as a consequence. There is… something under him. And on his chest.

 _A sharp intake_.

What is it? Why can’t he open his eyes to check? Are they tying him up again, to ensure he won’t escape and perform magic against them? What is surrounding him? He needs to _escape_ , _escape_ , _escape_.

A warm sensation.

A caress on his cheek.

He knows that. He knows that feeling.

The soft knuckles of a hand on his cheek.

A smooth material on his forehead; a sweet tingle of freshness. He feels a single drop of water escaping and tracing a relieving line on his heated temples, disappearing in his hair.

 _A forced exhale_.

His blazing mind abates, drinking in the cool touch.

“...ver is still high, and you’re trembling again,” a delicate rustle; the dip on the material he’s lying on disappears briefly, then returns after mere seconds.

A small rush of air and-

He can’t believe it. His chest is not freezing.

There is something on his body. The ice is melting.

There is something so, so warm beside him. Where the dip is.

There is someone.

“...ope you are less cold now. Anyway, I was saying. Remember when I told you about Max’s teachers? The little pest is making them crazy again, quoting the Codex randomly in the middle of classes, or amplifying some runes to show off.”

A restrained chuckle, as if he’s trying not to make any noise. How Magnus wishes he wouldn’t suppress it and laugh freely.

Another tremble of his body. And not for the cold. The soft knuckles are back on his left cheek, a fleeting, velvety sensation he wants to last forever.

“You are breathing better. You scared me minutes ago. What was I saying? Ah, yes. I can’t say I’m not proud. I wish he would be less obvious about hating his training. Idris is safer now; whatever happens at least he’s there, bad behaviour or not.”

A shift. Is he sitting on the bed, next to him?

“Izzy had dinner with Raphael yesterday. Of course I had to hear all the details this morning. A secret for a secret, she said. She wants… hum, every update about you, so I supposedly want every update about their relationship. Well. She’s helping to cover so I’ll just… listen.”

A smile in his voice.

“What else since I came here last? Let me think. Cat is buying some medicines for you. Did I tell you that she’s really worried about you?” An emphasis on _really_. “She’s positive you’ll wake up sooner or later. I... hope so. I-I apologized the first night we chatted here, remember? Maybe you don’t, so I’ll repeat it. I’m sorry I shot you. I didn’t... I thought... Nevermind. I’m... sure you’ll be okay. Cat says so. She’s been searching for you for years, you know. She asked for our help many times, but the Clave was... unhelpful.”

The trembling is taking control. He can feel it. _It’s not the cold, not the cold_.

“It’s just that... Hey, you okay?”

The material is gone from his forehead to reappear, cool again, on his heated skin. A cover under his chin, being repositioned.

There is someone with him.

His hazel-eyed archer.

He’s going to kill him. Finally destroy his body and-

“Don’t be afraid, okay? You’re safe. No one knows where you are, but Cat and my siblings. The Clave doesn’t know. You’re safe. Please, come back?”

He feels the hesitation in the last word. Like a question. Like permission.

 _Safe_ , _safe_ , _safe_.

No demons, no torture, no fire, no blood, no cold.

He’s safe. And he’s not alone anymore.


	6. Hazel Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Still, when the first hint of shadows creeps into the room from the window, and the orange colour of twilight cedes to the silver and blue tints of the night, something changes.
> 
> There is a faint sound, and he hears soft footsteps. A rush of fresh air by the door, and Alexander is back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are getting longer for sure!  
> Let me know what you think. Enjoy!

He doesn’t do it on purpose, he swears.

It’s just that… whenever Alec – _Alexander_ – asks him a question, he’s so enthralled by his eyes that he forgets to answer.

The first time he opened his eyes again, he knew he wasn’t at the docks anymore. He knew his body was unresponsive, that his mind was completely detached from it, that he lost control of everything. He was aware of everything that happened, of the way his mind was slowly clearing from the effects of the Dark Spell, of how the guilt was devouring his thoughts, of how he was already searching for a way to end everything.

Yet, he was still surprised that the first thing he managed to focus on, after several attempts at clearing the dizziness away and erasing the shadows clouding his sight, was a book. Someone was holding it. Long fingers, strong arms, a long torso, black hair and a handsome profile. Someone was reading intently while sitting on his bed.

No alleys, no docks, no blood.

Silence, and peace.

He should have panicked, but he knew. He was conscious and he still recalls everything he had been told; he still remembers about his siblings, his long days at the Institute, the updates on the war.

And there he was. His archer.

Instead of panicking, his mind suddenly stilled. No more thundering, no more painful banging in his head, no more confused memories and dark thoughts.

A quiet, peaceful lake surrounded by a warm breeze, caressed by the ray of a beautiful sun, not too big, not too near, not too hot, just perfect.

He didn’t feel his body. He perceived nothing outside of the way the other man was breathing; how his brow was furrowed in concentration; how his hand lifted to change the page. His eyes were moving quickly and steadily through words and lines, absorbed in the reading.

“Mmmh, I don’t think you would like this part. I should read you something else, anyway, but I really need to finish this.”

He watched, mesmerized, as Alexander shifted, placing the book on his right thigh while the left one supported his elbow. He put his hand under his chin in a comfortable position, without breaking the attention he was pouring on the book.

Completely different. He was completely different from what he had seen these past months. Different from the demons, the Greater ones, the humans and the other Shadowhunters. Different from the suffering, the blood and the killing; from the guilt and sadness that caught him in an unbreakable hold, making him breathless, drowning him in cold water.

There was nothing tainted about him, nothing foul, nothing dark, nothing evil.

So calm, peaceful and warm.

So unusual.

His mind kept on drinking the vision he was having, unaware of his surroundings and what was happening to him.

Until the man’s face shifted and those eyes focused on him.

Nothing had prepared him for that moment. Not those three times they met as enemies, not that one time at the docks, bleeding his life away, his face near his like in this moment.

Seeing them clearly, without a forced blank on his mind, without the thirst for blood, for darkness and old magic, without the anger and the confusion of his slipped control, was completely different.

His eyes were large and perfectly framed by long lashes. He could see them widen suddenly, as if in surprise. And he could observe the colour even better.

There are at least four different shades of it. Two greens, two browns. They weave among each other as if they are alive. They seem to play, chase one another: the warm green catching the fascinating deep sea green, the gold encircling the dark brown gleefully. Surely, a painter had decided to settle in with their final masterpiece and had picked up their best colours: a brush of forest, a touch of sea, a reminder of autumn leaves. And the ultimate outcome is a swirling of art, a blooming of sensation, the colours embracing, setting in and blazing like diamonds on a crown.

He doesn’t remember whether he had a favourite colour, back then, before… all of this; but if he did, he’s sure nothing will ever compare to hazel now.

Then, he saw his archer carefully lean in; a movement; was he talking? He couldn’t tear his attention away from those eyes and he didn’t even want to.

 

The second time their eyes met, the twilight after, was even worse. There was a soft light coming in from the window, a hint of red and gold, bathing the Shadowhunter in such an otherworldly way he could barely keep on breathing.

The light was attracted to those eyes as well, like his attention whenever the man is around.

And the colour shifted.

The green gone, asleep under the warmth of the brown, while a golden bronze had woken up, basking him with such intensity he forgot where he was.

He remembered words being spoken, names being exchanged, questions being asked, but he can’t bring himself to answer when his archer is near, and he only remembers to do so when he isn’t around and his battered mind is finally functioning again.

 

He has no control over his thoughts and body. He feels like he’s just lying there, on the bed, wasting his days away, waiting for his end to come. While he does so, his life is becoming a neverending passage through time.

Daylight hours are his nightmare. He usually wakes up with soft tingles in his ears from Catarina’s morning preparations of medicines and potions, almost ready for him to drink. Alexander is nowhere in sight, busy being the leader his people need him to be.

Daylight hours are a struggle. He spends those infinite minutes lost in the white of the ceiling while the injury on his shoulder keeps on savaging his body, resisting Catarina’s healing abilities. His limbs hurt, the headache terribly persistent, his eyes bloodshot and heavy. He wants to claw them out, to clutch his roaring heart and tear it into pieces, so that his breathing would stop being so erratic, so that it would hurt less to be alive.

There is nothing to focus on, nothing except the way his body is fighting what Catarina said was _a personal battle_ while explaining to Alexander, in hushed voices, why a simple arrow injury isn’t responding to her treatments.

 _He has decided to punish himself_ , she said.

But he knows better.

He’s dying. And he deserves to suffer before his final moment.

His ears follow Cat’s movements, both in his room and somewhere outside, but near, so he can _call her if he needs anything_.

Daylight hours are his retribution. While his body is battered by the fever, the numbness and the heaviness of multiple struggles, his mind devours him.

He relives how naïve he had been in his past life. His bad and good decisions, his relationships with friends and lovers, his family and his warlock children.

He relives that cursed night, his capture, the confusion of it all. He relives the torture and the fighting, the darkness and the surrender. He relives _their_ faces, _their_ hands choking the life out of him, ravaging his heart and annihilating his soul with blood and fire.

Worst of it all, he relives the final moments of those he killed, their faces and expressions, their strife and anguish in knowing they were dying.

By the time the sun decides to finally rest and slumber where the moon had rested hours before, he is usually ready to find anything sharp near him, plunge it into his chest and end his life, there and now. He fights his burdened body, trying to lift an arm, trying to move anything, to stand up and disappear once and for all, to vanish into that hateful darkness and continue his penitence in death.

But he can’t. He simply can’t. There is no strength in this body of his, no response, no connection to his restless mind. He’s frozen, blocked between his terrible guilt and the anxious atmosphere in the room.

 

He knows Catarina is waiting. Waiting for him to move his lips, to open his mouth and pour out his heart and soul onto her and tell her what happened. He knows.

But he can’t do that either.

His mind has chosen silence.

He honestly doesn’t remember how to talk. He has been silent for so long, he doesn’t recall the sensation of having a conversation, of forming one’s thoughts into words, of explaining, discussing and sharing.

He has nothing important to say, in any case. His end is just a matter of time.

Still, when the first hint of shadows creeps into the room from the window, and the orange colour of twilight cedes to the silver and blue tints of the night, something changes.

There is a faint sound, and he hears soft footsteps. A rush of fresh air by the door, and Alexander is back.

The first thing he feels is guilt. He shouldn’t be here after a long day of work or fights, just because he feels responsible for Magnus. Shooting him with that arrow had been the right thing to do. How he wishes he hadn’t missed on purpose.

The second is relief. He’s so tired, but sleep eludes him, as if he’s even too restless to lay still.

When his archer is near, however, his mind quietens. His eyes tear themselves away from the ceiling and search for the familiar tall figure and broad shoulders.

There he is, talking with Catarina about his condition, about news from the war and the demonic situation, about the current problems and possible solutions.

When the Shadowhunter is present, her attention shifts, and he’s free of the sadness he feels, of the failure he senses towards his old friend. He doesn’t deserve her attention and worry; she’s surely better off without him or any memory of Magnus Bane.

 

When Alexander greets him, it’s usually hesitant at first. As if he forgot his face, or their previous one-sided conversations. He catches the stolen glances while he lays a bag near the bed, his jacket on a chair, and gradually comes near him. Is he afraid of him? Does he think Magnus would hurt him? Or does he think _he_ is afraid of Alexander?

The only certain aspect of their unexpected and strange relationship is how his mind reacts. Whenever he glimpses those eyes, his mind and body stop torturing him, and focus on that beautiful colour and handsome face.

And he is absolutely certain of the reason.

There is wariness and hope in Catarina’s eyes every time he catches her staring at him. As if she’s expecting something, an old joke, a past reference, a mention of a memory. Catarina knows of the old Magnus Bane. But this new version of him? This new… person he has become? She doesn’t know him at all. No one does.

His archer, on the other hand, behaves differently. Maybe he’s hiding his hope – _and his fear_ – better. Nonetheless, there is no expectation in his eyes, no waiting, no judgement. There is worry, but most of all, there is curiosity.

A connection exists between them. Magnus is not talking, but it is like they’re having a conversation. Alexander sits on the bed, right next to him, with no revulsion nor unease. Sometimes he is tired, sometimes excited to tell him about something that had happened, sometimes simply spent and sad, his shoulders dropping, his eyes averted.

Whichever version of him he meets that night, Magnus’s attention focuses on him, drinking in the way Alexander’s mood changes depending on the person or situation he talks about, or how he reads the multiple reports of the day to finish the paperwork he couldn’t cover at work.

Because – he assured him multiple times – if it was only paperwork, he would come and read it to Magnus to keep him company – _maybe he notices something interesting? Sometimes he’s too tired of reading for so many hours_ – and to update him on the outside world. However, there can be emergencies. Demon activities, appearances of Valentine or Jonathan, dire situations.

During those occasions, Alexander leaves earlier during the night, before the terrifying dawn. Sometimes, Magnus manages to fall asleep in time while listening to his soothing voice. Sometimes, he resumes staring at the ceiling, his heart plunging back into a frenzied rhythm, his breathing struggling again.

During those occasions, Alexander may not come at all. It happened, once. The fever had been high all day, and he couldn’t sleep – if only he could sleep and fall into the blissful void of oblivion – nor focus on anything but the guilt.

There was no gentle hazel focusing on his way, no chatting about his sister’s cooking or his brothers’ troubles and love stories, no hushed confessions about wariness or unhappiness, of being scared of not being enough, of not being accepted by others.

There was nothing.

No warm brown, no reassuring green.

No words, no curiosity.

No connection, no anchor.

So he gave in, once more. He went back to the dark. Closed the little doors of those dangerous thoughts. Tried to suppress his mind and drown one last time. Let him drown. Let him end it and dissolve. Let him be relieved of the pain of remembering and confronting. Let him go.

He was so close. _So close_. He could feel how the frightening eclipsing of his mind was eating away his consciousness. How he was losing the battle. _No_ , he was _winning_. He was almost free.

Almost.

A strong hand gripped his. The right one, the one he can still sense.

He could feel a thumb on his skin and soothing circles caressing it.

Faraway, a familiar voice.

His body responded without him telling it anything, without any command. And his hand gripped back.

His anchor.

Seconds, minutes – _hours_? He doesn’t know – later, he woke up to a pair of fierce green eyes looking at him. The light of the early morning had changed the colour again, clearing the brown away. He can still feel the heat of that stare, of all the unspoken words seeping through the strength of their grasps and the hold of those eyes.

 _Don’t go_ , they said.

 _Stay_.

How could he refuse?

Since that day, his archer has always come, even if only for an hour. He arrives, greets him, tells him something to savour and hold on to, until the next meeting.

Until he will be ready.

Until he will choose to live.


	7. Golden Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He knows something is wrong because Alexander has stopped after entering the room. He is still there, his shoulders stiff, his beautiful eyes gazing at the window, lost in the view he imagines has to be breathtaking, drinking in the dark blue and black shades of the night.
> 
> His archer is lost. And something happened."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting more hopeful, yes? Slow recovery here and in the next chapter ;)

Not only is he a monster, he is also the most selfish man in the entire universe.

The crushing guilt he feels whenever he spends his days staring at the ceiling, usually goes away when Alexander is around. But not this time.

He knows something is wrong tonight from the very first moment: from the way the door opens slower than usual, from the lack of softness in his footsteps, as if he is dragging himself, as if he is pushing through a strong wind and he has no energy left.

He knows something is wrong from the way his own body reacts: his breathing stopping for a second and coming back with a struggle; his heart changing the steady and stronger rhythm he found in the last days, suddenly hurting again inside his chest as if someone’s hand has grasped it firmly and is crushing it slowly.

He knows something is wrong because Alexander has stopped after entering the room. He is still there, his shoulders stiff, his beautiful eyes gazing at the window, lost in the view he imagines has to be breathtaking, drinking in the dark blue and black shades of the night.

His archer is lost. And something happened.

He continues to stare at him, waiting for the usual greeting, for him to come and sit next to his bed, to tell him about his day and his siblings.

He is the most selfish monster of them all.

Only because this man, this generous, pure man, had decided to come here every night, to deprave himself of sleeping, to keep him company and check whether Magnus was still fighting or his hidden demons had finally won and dragged him back into the darkness, it doesn’t mean that Alexander’s life has stopped in these past weeks. That there aren’t problems outside of Magnus’s room. That he’s not the only one fighting and straining to go through every day and every night.

In his disgusting selfishness, since that day he had woken up to a pair of brilliant eyes willing him to live, to continue and _be_ , he has held onto this man, stealing his energy, basking in his warmth, dreaming in those tiny sparkles that usually form in his eyes from the soft light of the room, shimmering like crystals.

He has taken Alexander for granted.

He has been so sure he would die, either killed by the injury in his shoulder or strangled by his dark thoughts, that he has unconsciously settled with the fact that this man is part of his life now.

He has been so sure, until... minutes ago. Before his Shadowhunter had entered, before he had seen the veil of sadness covering his eyes, making them darker, hidden, lost.

He should say something. Wake him up; stop him from thinking about sorrowful things; make him forget about being wistful, the same way Alexander does for him. He should tear away the cloak of melancholy that is surrounding him, suffocating the radiance of the green and the warmth of the brown in his eyes. He should ask him about his siblings’ whereabouts, about his work, his day, if he’s sleeping, if he’s eating, if he needs anyth-

“Hi.”

A croaking sound. He feels his throat move and vibrate, but he doesn’t know if the sound that came out is clear enough, or even understandable. His lips clamp shut while his heart contracts painfully, making his chest ache.

He is afraid.

Alexander will ask him about his past, about everything that happened, about who he had been, what he did and who he killed, about his loathsome magic. His soothing aura will change. He will start to hate him, to finally see who Magnus really is. After that, he will either flee and leave him alone, or finish what he started with his arrow and push him back into the darkness.

He is afraid.

But he has accomplished what he wanted.

He hears a sharp intake, and he sees Alexander’s head snap in his direction, eyes widening in surprise.

Yes. He did it. He broke the spell his archer was under. Whichever the consequences will be, he owes it to him, after so many nights of blissful distraction, lovely escape and intimate confessions.

“Hi.”

His heart contracts again, his fear closing his throat when he hears the answer. His eyes drink in the way Alexander’s body shifts towards him, forgetting the window and the colours of the night, forgetting his sorrow. He glances up, meeting those breathtaking eyes, expecting revulsion and rejection. Surely, it is easier to consider him just as a needy person, someone to take care of. Surely, that is why his Shadowhunter keeps on coming: he blames himself for his injury and he wants to be reassured that he won’t be responsible for Magnus’s death.

Surely.

Yet.

There is nothing but kindness in Alexander’s eyes. A hint of surprise there, in the brilliance reflecting the light; a tiny trace of hope, here, whirling in the gorgeous hazel.

_Don’t crush it. Don’t ruin it. Don’t kill it like you killed the hope of those innocent people._

“Did Jace ask Clary?”

There. Hushed, rusty, horribly unused, but his voice is out. It is painful: his lungs are burning, his throat is closing and choking him again, his dry lips cracking while moving, but he can do it. He will do it. He will return the relief he has received, even if it hurts, even if it won’t last.

It worked again.

Alexander’s face changes immediately: his eyes clear themselves of any other feeling but affection, the surprise and sadness sizzling away like clouds after a strong wind; his expression brightens while he smiles genuinely. Magnus knew that mentioning his brother would make him happy.

“You remember.”

His voice is faint as well, as if he is not believing what is happening, that they are actually talking, that they are finally having a two-sided conversation.

His eyes roam everywhere: on his injured shoulder, on the right hand resting on his stomach, on the blanket covering his torso, back again on his face, stopping at his lips and finally meeting his own eyes.

His breathing stumbles once again, losing its rhythm, clawing at his lungs and scratching his throat.

_Is he happy because he talked?_

Again. The heat of that stare. Like that day when he almost gave up. The strength emanating from it strikes him with its intensity. There is power in it, seeping through those colours, giving him life.

There is power also in the way Magnus is holding it. He knows that one wrong word, one wrong move, will destroy it, perhaps forever.

He tries to answer, to say something else, to continue the distraction, but his body betrays him once again. A shudder shatters his resolution. His chest hurts too much. He hears his own painful inhaling, a scratching inside his throat.

Attentive and observant, Alexander notices, of course. He watches him as he moves again, slowly, approaching his bed. His eyes never leave his, not even while he sits on the bed, on his favourite spot next to him.

He forgets the losing fight with his breathing when he is faced with that handsome profile, his apprehensive stare following how Alexander rests his arms on his thighs, twirling his fingers together, his back arched as if he wants to make himself smaller, less imposing, less intimidating.

“He did. He told me he put all his charm into it. Clary said yes, of course, so they are finally going on a date.”

His smile manages to lighten his face, no worried frown marring his beautiful features, no heavy sadness veiling his eyes.

 

Something has changed, however. Minutes pass in silence while they observe each other. Something has shifted in their unusual relationship, he knows it from the way his archer is deep in thought, looking at him; he knows it from the way he is surely gazing back, as if he’s discovering a secret treasure, as if the world has stopped, disappearing behind the blackness of the night.

It’s not the same sense of expectation he perceives from Catarina. It’s hope, mixed with curiosity and anticipation. Alexander is not waiting for the old High Warlock of Brooklyn to come back and reminisce about the past; he’s craving to discover who Magnus, the newly sane warlock, is.

“Are you okay?”

He hopes that in altering what they have established between them these past weeks, he hasn’t changed the man’s habit of sitting here with him and telling him everything and anything. He would miss it terribly. He would regret it every day. So he answers carefully.

“Yes, you?”

He is regretting asking that now, seeing how Alexander’s posture stiffens slightly and suddenly, as if he’s finally remembering something, or how he averts his eyes for a fleeting moment, to come back with a tainted anguish. But he needs to know. Maybe he can help?

“Max was... attacked. W-we think it was Jonathan.”

He continues, sharing what happened: they had found their little brother unconscious in his office, attacked by Jonathan, Valentine’s son. The Institute is currently locked down and they are focusing on the manhunt.

Max’s life is in danger. Magnus realizes it from the way he’s speaking: carefully but somehow hesitantly; his thoughts are too turbulent and confused to grasp and transform into words. He realizes it also from the way Alexander has finally turned away, his eyes moving restlessly and gazing, unseeing, at the floor; his position tense, as if he’s waiting to be hit by an unknown force.

He shouldn’t be here with Magnus. He should have stayed there, in his Institute, next to his little brother, sitting on his bed like he’s sitting on his right now, telling him about his day and how things are going to be alright, if only he would come back.

He shouldn’t be here, caring for Magnus, making sure he won’t have another unexpected crisis, only because he is too much of a coward to face reality, to gather the remains of his life and start anew, to square his shoulders and be ready to suffer and love again. To _live_. He’s too frightened to stop hiding and share what happened, because he knows, _he knows_ , Catarina and Alexander will finally look at him with horror. And he feels so lonely. Empty. Abandoned.

Still.

He shouldn’t be here. He should take care of his family and his people. He should continue living.

“Go.”

It’s the right thing to say: Alexander’s head moves immediately towards him, his eyes darkening and searching fervently for something in his.

What answers is he looking for? Does he want honesty? Can he see the guilt in the brown he’s piercing with his hazel?

He prays, he hopes, there is no hint of gold, that his magic is gone and dead, that it won’t ruin the silent connection they are forming, based on sincerity and mutual respect.

“Go.”

He insists roughly; he manages to move the fingers of his healthy right hand, enclosing the blanket in a firm hold, trying to convey that _he can do it alone_ , _he can wait one night_ , _he can make it_.

Minutes passes while Alexander studies him. He finds something in his eyes at last, because he moves all of a sudden. He goes towards the door and Magnus’s heart sinks: he ruined it. He feels another shudder threatening to destroy the hold he has on his mind.

Ruined. Broken. Like everything he has ever touched and felt.

However, he sees him crouching just outside the door he left open, his upper half disappearing on the right; he seems to pick up something.

There is another agonizing pressure in his chest, and he knows his heart is reacting to Alexander coming back into the room, the jacket he had mindlessly discarded just outside the door now in his hands. He is searching for something in one of the pockets, his expression serious and fierce.

His right hand emerges clutching a small package. He watches the man, enraptured, while he puts the jacket in its usual place, on the only chair in the room, already forgotten. There is a shyness in his movements, a hesitation that was absolutely not there seconds before.

He glances at the small black bag he can now observe when Alexander sits back down next to him on the bed.

He frowns, confused.

“I-I...”

He forgets the bag and looks up at Alexander’s face once again. What is it? He caught something in his voice. Why is he suddenly so unsure? Has something else happened?

He’s about to ask, but he’s beaten by an unexpected confession.

“I... Izzy dragged me to... shop with her last week. She said I-I was working too much and wanted to distract me. I, well, I saw this and thought of... you.”

He swears he can see the Shadowhunter’s face change, a faint blush touching his cheeks, a soft red colouring his jaw. He feels his eyebrows moving up, his eyes widening in surprise.

Surely he heard that wrong?

“Me?”

His attention is caught by Alexander’s hand disappearing inside the little bag, and reappearing with a tiny object.

The first thing he notices are the colours: the lights enhance the golden lines that are embracing a vivid red, reminding him of the past twilights and how they mean that Alexander’s arrival is imminent. The material seems soft; the size small enough to hide it in pockets or embrace it in one’s hand.

“Yes, you. It’s supposed to bring you luck and protection.”

There is a faint ringing in his ears while he feels his right hand being caressed by another, unclenching the death grip he has been putting on the poor blanket, holding it as if his life depended on it. His mind empties completely, his heart accelerating dangerously when he feels Alexander placing the silky gift in his hand and curling his fingers around his, so that he’s clasping it completely.

There is nothing but the warmth of the other man’s skin on his and the comforting sensation of being anchored.

“Keep it with you while I’m not here. I’ll come back, okay?”

A squeeze, and then too soon, _too soon_ , the warmth is gone, and he’s left with something he would have never imagined.

A gift.

Something given freely. _To him_. Without expecting anything in return, no requests, no favours, no expectations.

He feels a scorching stare studying his reaction. But the only thing he can do is faintly unclasp his hold on the object, peering through his trembling fingers.

The gold. The gold is there, reminding him of heated gazes and courageous decisions, of kindness and altruism, of promises and encouragement.

He feels his heart finally shatter into thousands of pieces, mirroring the way the darkness in his mind is being devoured by a golden light.

The most selfish human in the universe. But no more. No more, from this moment on.

Magnus promises to himself: he will give back what he has received. And he will start now.


	8. Silver Purpose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The dizziness is what unbalances him the most: his head spins every time he tries to do something. It’s like the world wants him to fail, dipping left and right without notice, making him feel breathless and confused, making him want to crawl back into his bed and admit defeat.
> 
> But he won’t. He has promised himself. He has promised Alexander, secretly, in his heart."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magnus is falling in love <3 It will be even more evident in the next chapter. Enjoy!

The dizziness is what unbalances him the most: his head spins every time he tries to do something. It’s like the world wants him to fail, dipping left and right without notice, making him feel breathless and confused, making him want to crawl back into his bed and admit defeat.

But he won’t. He has promised himself. He has promised Alexander, secretly, in his heart.

 

It’s afternoon.

Alexander left after giving him the gift, promising to come back the next twilight. He remembers following his exit, his broken heart beating painfully, as if it wanted to catch Alexander’s attention and call him back. He couldn’t go back to stare at the ceiling; he couldn’t keep on crafting the outline of every person he had ended when he had wasted their life-blood away. So his eyes stayed there, on the door, shaping his archer’s features, recalling every small detail, every beautiful peculiarity, every shade of his eyes.

He spent the hours after thinking.

What are they? Two men crossing paths in a dire situation? A Shadowhunter and a warlock standing on even ground, allying against terrible and merciless enemies? Acquaintances, who met by chance because his fate had decided so? Are they even friends now that he knows Alexander’s life through his tales, told during the past month? Because he _does_ know everything he likes, loves and hates, as well as any other aspect he could imagine: how he frowns in concentration while reading the last reports; how he absent-mindedly scratches his collarbone while he thinks of specific solutions to solve a problem; how he leans his chin on his hand and gazes at him, his eyes roaming on his tired and sickly, white face. He presumes he searches for answers to unasked and intimate questions.

And every time while he waits for Alexander’s expression to shut down, for him to stand up, slowly, fearfully, retreating, whispering to him that he’s a monster, Magnus simply stares back. Sometimes he gets distracted by the rune kissing his neck, immersed in forbidden and faraway dreams of tracing the lines of that rune, to see if his skin is as soft as it seems. Other times, his eyes are drawn to his jaw, and he swears he can feel his own fingers trembling, craving for a single touch, a single caress, a single taste, just to confirm whether his thoughts are right – that Alexander is the most beautiful man he has ever seen. Most of those moments, however, he’s lost in those eyes.

He hopes that one day, if he won’t die soon, he will get used to them. On the other hand, he hopes he won’t, that he will always be surprised by them.

He knows that whatever will happen, whether they will be enemies, allies or strangers, whether they will ignore or greet each other, or just go on with their lives without a second thought, instead of protecting the connection they have established, he’s _absolutely_ certain that he will search for those eyes for the rest of his immortal life. He doesn’t know if he will find them in another person or not. Is it even possible to come across that exact colour for a second time in one’s life? Will someone ever look at him with the same expression of wonder and curiosity Alexander blesses him with?

In any case, he will seek them out. And he will find them, whenever he will glimpse his archer while hiding in the shadows, watching from afar. He will make sure he’s okay, that he’s not in danger, that he’s happy with his family. At the same time, he will restore pieces of his soul, basking in the kindness and purity the man manages to share with his mere presence.

 

To do that, however, he needs to stand up, move and gather the pieces of his life back into his hands. That was the last thought he had before succumbing to a peaceful night, full of dreams of brilliant gold lines capturing shadows of darkness, dusting them with sparkles. A shimmering entwining; a starred background; a silver trail mirroring the gold. The last thing he remembers of the dream, before rousing in the afternoon, is the brilliant hope of a new beginning, the promises of golden warmth and silver difficulties.

 

He woke up to a soft light entering from the half-closed window, his right hand still clenching the omamori, the ghost of Alexander’s fingers on his lingering in his consciousness.

It scares him, the effect the man has on him. It’s too powerful, too unique, too similar to what he had always wanted before his capture. He had decided to renounce all of that, however, right before surrendering to _them_. There was no place for Magnus Bane in the world anymore.

But now…

Now, he doesn’t know. Everything is too confusing and new to understand. He was sure of his end, yet he’s still here, ill, but alive.

Perhaps, it’s another chance. Perhaps, it’s a new start. Perhaps, it was the only way to meet his archer and finally find someone who can accept all of him.

That thought made him decide to finally try to move.

His hand grasping the gift, stealing strength from it, he managed slowly, carefully, to move and bend his arm. A needed but painful pressure on his right side, and his torso was finally off the mattress.

Moving his legs was more difficult. They seemed too heavy and far; surely, they were someone else’s legs, not his. Nonetheless, working little by little, moving inch by inch, concentrating on one small movement after the other, he accomplished what he wanted: he’s sitting on his bed.

It’s a strange sensation. He feels different from the Magnus Bane sitting near the docks, waiting to die; yet he’s somehow the same. There is a part of him, at least, that is coming back: old habits, past thoughts, favourite things. He tries to concentrate on that, on the positive aspects of life, while he waits for the room to stop spinning and for his breathing to resume a normal rhythm. His lungs are grasping for air; his left arm resting lifelessly against his side; his shoulder still burning from the arrow injury, even if it’s less severe; his right hand still embracing Alexander’s gift, his knuckles turning white.

He will do it.

He exhales slowly, his gaze focusing on Catarina’s medicine, carefully placed on the table in front of him, leaning against the wall. He can do it. It’s not far. He can walk there, drink his medicine, and go back to bed. Catarina will arrive and a smile will finally form on her face, frowns and worry gone. He will crack a joke about how he’s too old and he needs to retire once and for all.

Alexander will check in soon, and he will be proud of his progression. He will stop worrying too and focus on the war and his people, and probably forget all about him. But it’s okay. Everything will be alright. He owes that to them. He needs to make them understand he’s grateful for everything they’ve done during the past weeks. Above all, he’s grateful for their presence. They didn’t leave him alone, scared in the darkness.

Another long exhale.

Yes, he can do it.

He angles himself toward the wall nearest him, the top of the bed against it. He feels his unused muscles working, contracting and relaxing while he extends his right arm to use the wall as support. He manages one step, before hitting the wall with the left side of his body, his usual grace vanished, destroyed by long days of punishment and useless rest.

His back is hunched, his legs trembling under him, threatening to give up at any second. He’s drowning again, his breathing too uneven, his throat and nose grasping for air. He can’t focus on the medicine anymore, the colours of the furniture mixing together, the right side of the room plunging under him while the left side moves in waves, confusing him.

He closes his eyes, resting his forehead on the cold wall, half crouching but still standing, trying to gain his balance back, trying to convince his body that they can do it, that it’s simple: just five steps and he will be there.

The blackness of his eyelids makes it worse, however, so he opens them once again to find the shining golden lines of the omamori right in front of him. He recalls the night before again: the aura of sadness around Alexander and how he was facing all of his problems bravely by always doing the right thing.

Fight. He needs to fight.

He caresses the soft, red silk of the gift with his thumb, drinking in the warmth of it, basking in the strength it gives him.

The room has stopped moving. There is still a faint ringing in his ears, a drop of sweat marring his temple, reminding him that he needs to be careful, or he will fall and hurt himself, ruining Catarina and Alexander’s care.

His medicine is there. A small, silver bottle. Inside, a transparent liquid. Catarina will be back soon, surely thinking he’s just sleeping his day away.

He braces himself for the pain on his shoulder and the clawing inside his chest. They are back, immediately after he resumes moving towards his target.

But he resists.

One small step; his arm follows, using the wall as leverage; his fingers keep on caressing the gift, stealing more power, craving for more energy.

There is nothing else in the room but the silver gleaming. Everything else disappears: there’s no light, no window, no bed, no table, no door. It’s like watching a star up close: there are tiny crystals of grey, showered in glittery silver, glowing, guiding him toward safety.

Two steps left.

He manages to move his leg, and cover another step; his arm leaves the wall and stretches in front of him, reaching for the table.

It’s too far, and his legs are too tired.

Wrong.

There is something wrong.

There is something wrong with his heart.

He feels a sudden shudder in his injured shoulder and his sight loses its focus, the silver blurring dangerously, the tiny crystals expanding infinitely, eating everything else, making him blind.

Instincts make him reach frantically for the table, but it’s not there. He feels his grasp weakening, the omamori falling from his fingers.

A strangled sound forms in his throat.

 _No_ , _no_ , _no_.

The warmth in his hand is gone.

He blindly lunges forward, trying to catch it before it plunges into the darkness menacing to engulf him, before he loses it and the fragments of bravery he has managed to gather inside him.

His body gives up.

He shuts his eyes, waiting for the impact.

Instead, strong arms circle his waist, stopping the fall. He feels a body under his, and his hopeful, broken heart recognizes it immediately.

Magnus’s hand grasps for the material of his shirt, finding an anchor. Everything his trembling again, his arms, his legs, his entire world. He leans his cheek on the man’s shoulder, breathing the scent he would know everywhere: Alexander.

“I’ve got you.”

Another shudder when Alexander’s sweet, soothing voice seeps through, restoring his soul.

The warmth of one arm disappears for a moment, while the other remains, firmly, around his waist; a gentle hand cups his other cheek, turning his head.

He forces his eyes open and he meets the concerned auburn, embraced by the light of the fading sun. They are sitting on the floor, the table hovering near them.

Failure.

“Are you okay?”

He has failed. Again. He can’t stop his shivering while he searches for any kind of reaction in Alexander’s eyes. He has seen Magnus’s defeat. He knows he’s weak, that he’s not strong enough to walk, to heal, to live. Will his archer finally leave him now?

If he does…

His gaze snaps down, the hold he has on Alexander’s shirt dissolving to search for his gift.

Where is it? It fell, just right there.

His eyes roam the floor, his breath hitching in panicked pants.

He can’t lose it. He _can’t_. If Alexander goes away, at least he will still have his gift to hold onto and remember these days, these feelings, the forgotten dreams and the beautiful colours.

Where is–

“Here.”

His shudders slowly subside when Alexander takes his hand and puts the omamori back on his palm. He watches, dazzled, as he closes his fingers around his, mirroring last night’s gesture, gifting him with hope once again, telling him that it’s okay to fail: the important thing is to stand up again.

They stay there for endless minutes, so close to each other, waiting for his trembling to finally stop and for his distressed breathing to go back to normal.

When he finally manages to take control of his body again, he risks a glance at Alexander’s face, suddenly feeling a gentle hand on his back, drawing soothing circles.

“Better?”

He sees patience in his eyes. Peace and kindness in his expression. He’s not angry.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is raspy once more, just a bare whisper.

“It’s... alright. Next time, wait for me, okay? We can manage together.”

He searches for the hint of a lie in that coppery tint he has started to love. But there’s none. He means every word, and he doesn’t even know the effect it has on him.

“Okay.”

Yes, he will wait. Because his heart is thundering in his chest, and not because it’s hurt, but because it’s happy.

Together, he said.

Yes, together, they will make it.


	9. White Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It’s impressive how naïve he is. He thought Alexander’s eyes are fascinating: he can stare at them for hours, studying every reflection and thought escaping from his soul. However, he has two new problems now: the light touches and those lips."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost fluffy here ;) some angst in the next chapter though (but comfort too)!

It’s impressive how naïve he is. He thought Alexander’s eyes are fascinating: he can stare at them for hours, studying every reflection and thought escaping from his soul. However, he has two new problems now: the light touches and those lips.

 

He doesn’t know whether Alexander is aware of it, but whenever Magnus is standing, he’s hovering over him. One arm is always brushing his – just a light touch that leaves him wanting more – his fingers clenching and unclenching, as if he’s ready to catch him if he falls again, like it happened days ago the first time he had tried to stand.

On those occasions, it’s incredibly difficult for Magnus to concentrate on his own body, to will it to move and function normally. He’s too distracted: the closeness makes it impossible to ignore how gracefully Alexander’s body moves, shaped by years of training, or how handsome his face is, all fair skin and shocking eyes. He can’t stop himself from glancing at his hair either, wondering about the softness he would feel if he just gathered enough courage to brush his fingers through it.

The warmth emanating from him is addicting as well: he always feels the cold scatter away from his limbs, and come back with a vengeance whenever Alexander is far.

The closeness is the real problem. With an innocent caress on his shoulder, or a hand on his back to help him stabilize his balance, there is no way he can’t notice how his heart reacts to every light touch. He feels its frantic beating, the too rapid throb in his chest, and he wonders how Alexander doesn’t hear it. His heart is telling him what he already knows: he’s enjoying this new dynamic too much.

His mind stops working; it forgets the struggle with his body, the weariness of his muscles, the ringing in his ears, the worry about the outside world. There is only a sense of wonder in noticing how Alexander just _fits_ next to him. Having him standing near him, walking with him, talking to him while bumping each other’s shoulders feels _right_.

The closeness is absolutely the problem. Because the first time they stood together, face to face at first so they could wait for his dizziness to disappear, he had noticed those lips. And he knew he had lost the battle.

There is no sense in denying it, anyway. He could do it only at the beginning, when they didn’t know each other, when they were still strangers ignoring their intimate battles, the sadness and joy they had experienced before meeting.

But not now.

Not after weeks of discovering one another, not after he has carefully retained every tale told by Alexander, crafting new little treasure chests in his mind to hold them forever, and never let go. Not after these last days of conversations, of shy questions and honest answers, of respect and kindness.

His mind is in a completely different state. The blackness and confusion of months ago is a frightful nightmare, threatening him during moments of loneliness, warning him that everything is still too fresh. But the oppression caused by his thoughts is gone. There’s a white brightness in his mind, mirroring the glimmer of those precious tales. It’s almost blinding, but it’s warm too. And he loves it.

 

There is a positive energy around his Shadowhunter today. He updates him on everything outside of his room: how his little brother Max is getting better, as well as the discovery about Jonathan living in the Institute all these weeks, disguised as Sebastian Verlac. The war has taken a new turn, and Alexander is clearly feeling better, more at ease.

He has constantly been checking on him during the past few days, helping Catarina with the new healing potion that seems to finally function on his stubborn body. He’s there every time he takes a walk through his room, trying to gain his energy back. He was there yesterday too, when he had finally decided to venture out of those four walls and breathe in the fresh air from the rest of Catarina’s apartment.

Today, the balcony is a blessing, the cool breeze of autumn brushing off all of his problems, embracing him with a refreshing sensation. Alexander is always next to him, sharing everything, asking him safe questions about himself.

There is a beautiful view in front of them. The twilight is breathtaking: the sun is slowly descending, still trying to embrace the scattered, red and yellow leaves falling from the trees of the city. The heart of the sun is white and pure as Alexander’s tales in his mind; there are lines of gold in the sky, just around it, as well as patches of red. The colours remind him of his precious gift, safe in his pocket.

He is sure he would love the dusk even more if he would just take the time to drink it in and follow the sun’s slumber, but he is too distracted. He is lost in Alexander once again.

He knows he is staring. He is using the railing of the balcony as a support, his elbow safely propped on it, his right hand under his chin. He is probably smiling a little, a daydreaming, foolish, expression on his face. But he can’t help it.

Alexander is too beautiful.

His has never enough of him: of the way the light manages to enchant his eyes, mirroring the colours of the autumn; of the way his lips move, gifting him of another tale, of his love for archery, of faraway memories.

His heart contracts painfully. If he were the old Magnus Bane, the one before his capture, before the Dark Spell, before _everything_ , he would have already tried to capture those lips. That version of himself was more brave and determined; he would have recognized the possibility of such an encounter; of how Alexander may be–

A delicate touch on his left arm. Alexander has managed to come even closer, sharing his warmth: his right arm is mirroring his left one, bent and resting on the railing. His body shudders from the gentle connection. The right side of his body has been cold and lifeless for so long. Now, however, he gazes longingly at the way their arms are fully in contact and he wishes he was more confident, like he was years ago, and turn his fingers to brush the back of Alexander’s hand.

The thought is so strong he feels his fingers shift.

He is too afraid. Too afraid of pushing. He can’t lose him. Not now.

He glances up at Alexander’s face, trying to calm his quivering heart.

There is no lovely blush kissing his face; he’s unaware, lost in his tale, enjoying their innocent touches and the magnificent twilight. He doesn’t know.

Magnus smiles a little. He likes a challenge.

 

***

 

“Are you sure that you have time for this?”

Alexander turns slightly towards him while still putting his coat on. There is the ghost of a smile on his face.

“I am. Izzy and Jace are covering. Don’t worry, okay?”

He sighs, burying his hand for the tenth time in his pocket, checking if the omamori is still there. If he wasn’t so scared of losing it, he would carry it in his hand forever.

He is grateful for Alexander’s presence. This morning, Catarina stormed into his room with a suggestion: they should go visit his old apartment. Just a short stop to pick up some clothes and ingredients for one of her spells.

He knows it’s just an excuse. She wants him to be surrounded by familiar objects, hoping he will recover a piece of his soul now that he seems better, although still tired and weak. The wound is slowly healing, but there is still an angry, painful spot marring his skin.

He doesn’t know if it will work. He doesn’t even know if he wants it to work. Although he’s sure his soul is different and incomplete, at least now he can feel it. It’s there. Alexander has restored it.

Still.

He is nervous. He hasn’t set foot in his apartment for more than a year. He doesn’t know what will happen or how his mind will react. Will he just snap back to his old self, have a good laugh and resume his life? Will he finally go insane, his guilty conscience devouring him once and for all? Will he lose control of his body, turning on anything around him?

“Catarina is opening the portal. Are you ready?”

He blinks rapidly, his worry suddenly evaporating while a coldness insinuates in his chest, cutting his breath short and making him tremble.

He stiffens, frozen in the middle of his room.

He made a decision days ago: when they will part ways, he promised himself he would check on Alexander regularly, protect him, even if only from afar; making sure he is safe, looked after, happy.

He promised, holding his gift in his hand, his mind clear and sane after so many months.

But he can’t, can he.

He can’t protect Alexander like he wants to. He has no magic left.

He can’t create portals. He can’t summon magical fire to battle his enemies. He can’t heal wounds. He feels nothing in that place, in his soul, where his magic used to be. That part is gone, lost in the darkness.

His eyes are still brown, not golden. What is he? Human? He surely doesn’t feel so. He still feels like a monster. A frightening and selfish monster with no magic.

If they were two men finding each other in the mundane world, it would be less complicated. But they are not. Alexander is a Shadowhunter: he fights, he goes to war; he gets injured; he can be hurt.

He can’t prevent any of that without magic. He can’t heal him, he can’t save him, he can’t be sure of anything.

He’s useless.

“Hey.”

There’s a warm caress on his cheek. His surroundings come back, his sight focusing once again.

The iciness in his chest melts little by little, his heart instantly recognizing the man in front of him. His eyes seek the reassuring hazel, his body reacting to the delicate touch of those fingers on his cheek.

Alexander.

Magnus’s right hand rushes out, grasping the shirt right there, in front of him, almost hidden from the open coat. He grips the material, not daring to touch his skin, afraid of scaring him, afraid of losing him. He closes his eyes, trying to banish the thought.

He needs an anchor and his battered mind recognizes only one soul to soothe his: Alexander’s.

“I’m sorry.” A whisper. He feels guilty again, for ruining the hopeful moment Catarina has created, for wasting everyone’s time.

His eyes snap open the moment he feels the man’s body fully in contact with his, the hand clutching Alexander’s shirt the only thing between them.

He can lose himself in the emotions shining through the multiple colours of his eyes. In these moments, Alexander is able to deliver everything he wants to say and convince him of without uttering a single word: that Magnus is safe, that he will take care of him if his body and mind shut down, that the outside world won’t hurt him anymore, that he cares. That there is no need to be sorry, not now, not ever, if he only shared the burden with him and stop torturing his bruised heart.

“It’s okay.” There’s another light touch on his cheek, Alexander’s fingers tracing a soft line with his knuckles. Magnus’s face leans towards the caress, his lungs managing to finally draw in more air.

“We can go another day. There’s no rush.”

His fingers tighten their hold on his shirt, feeling the warm skin underneath it. Whenever he thinks Alexander offers him a final precious moment that he will never forget, another one follows immediately after, surprising him even more. How he wishes he had met this beautiful man before. How he wishes he had protected him back then, shielding him from the hate and the heartbreaks, from sadness and loneliness. He would have fought _them_ harder, knowing he had someone to go back to.

How he wishes.

“It’s alright. I’m fine. I’ll manage if you are with me.” This, however. This he can do. This, he _will_ do. He will show Alexander that he is stronger, that he is healing, that his care is a gift he will never take for granted again, as well as the most precious thing he has ever had.

Alexander’s lovely lips curve into a sweet smile, watching him with a tender and knowing expression.

His archer is not so unaware, after all.

 

***

 

He had tried not to think about anything while they were packing the ingredients and piling up his clothes to take with them. Catarina is waiting in her safe house, on the other side of the portal, giving them some time to find everything, but not too much, else he may lose the tight control he has on his thoughts once again.

He had tried.

But now that he is waiting for Alexander to grab the last bag of clothes, his gaze steals a hasty glance around him.

He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t notice how his apartment feels empty and abandoned, dust dancing everywhere as they move through the rooms, the once brilliant colours of his furniture and decoration now dull and fading.

He doesn’t recognize it. Everything around him belongs to a stranger, not to him. There aren’t things he loves anymore, no accessory, no picture, no tint he craved for or missed.

There is nothing for him here anymore.

A pang of sadness touches his heart. He lost his magic. He lost his home. He lost his old self.

“Ready?”

He tears his eyes away from his past life, to find his new one right next to him. There is a safe distance between them this time, but Alexander is still looking at him as if he _knows_. Can he see the sadness enveloping his mind? Does he notice how his presence changes everything, how Magnus always concentrates on his eyes first, to be distracted then by his lips and leap back to the hazel piercing his soul?

He suspects he does, from the way the gentle smile is back on his face, to the space the Shadowhunter’s body devours to be as close to him as possible.

If he knows, it will be easier for him to finally tell him clearly.

If he doesn’t... Well. He accepts the challenge. And he will win his archer’s heart.


	10. Cobalt Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He knows something is wrong when he hears a commotion somewhere in Catarina’s apartment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, everything will be fine by the end of the next chapter <3 have faith!

Alexander is late.

He doesn’t dwell much on the thought at first. They parted way after rearranging his room at Catarina’s safe house, folding the clothes they had brought from his apartment and placing them in the closet. Hours passed while sharing safe and silly comments on his fashion taste, on Alexander’s more practical set of mind, on the things they love to drink and eat, on Jace’s and Isabelle’s interests and their childhood adventures. They spent the night talking, laughing and sobering on more serious discussions, nothing but respect and curiosity in their voices.

It could have been the perfect moment to push the matter of his… infatuation with Alexander. Just a hint, to see how he would reacted. Just another light touch, to know what the other man is feeling. To understand whether they can still continue to shape and develop their relationship.

But the moment was too precious, and he didn’t have the heart to ruin it. He doesn’t know how he would react if he is faced with a rejection. He doesn’t even want to think about the reasons behind that rejection. He knows his sadness will come haunt him again and push him back in the coldness. But it’s a risk he is willing to take. Whatever his archer will decide, he will respect it.

Alexander had to leave in the early morning. It was still dark when he told him he would return at sunset, bidding him a good rest. He had to catch some hours of sleep; he manhunt for Jonathan is still operative and he needs to be on alert all the time.

Thus, he doesn’t dwell much on Alexander’s delay. He knows something may have happened and, as the Head of the New York Institute and leader of his people, his Shadowhunter has to be wherever he is needed to be.

Despite that, he misses him.

Even though they don’t spend all of their time talking, the silence with him is never wistful. Whether Alexander is reading a book, his report, or he is just lost in his thoughts, Magnus can always feel his presence somewhere in the room. His own body seems to be tuned towards the spot where the other man is, craving for his warmth, his scent, his delicate brushes.

Nonetheless, he misses his voice too; the way he speaks his mind with blunt honesty, as well as the soothing tone he always addresses him with whenever they talk.

Most of all, he misses his gorgeous eyes and the way they enthrall his soul.

 

He knows something is wrong when he hears a commotion somewhere in Catarina’s apartment. He stops in the middle of the room, his body half turned toward the door, his face tilting in concentration to identify the noises. He recognizes the swirling sound of a portal, two familiar voices and the fast approach of footsteps.

His breath loses its steady rhythm, stumbling in a sharp inhale, when he recognizes one of the voices. He feels his throat getting dry and his legs taking an involuntary step backwards. His eyes fly toward the half-opened door of his room when a hand spreads it wide.

And then he is finally there, studying him with an unfathomable expression on his pale face.

“Magnus.”

Raphael’s acknowledging greeting painfully lacerates through him, like Alexander’s arrow in his shoulder. His breathing resumes, erratic and unsteady, mirroring the way the control he has on his mind is dangerously slipping once again.

Raphael. The child he had saved all those years ago. His vampire friend, who used to check on him regularly, either hidden by his shadows or through Ragnor when gossiping about his life. The one who preferred not to share his feelings and his love, because he had duties and he accepted his new Downworlder status as a punishment for his sins.

Raphael. The same who spoke of evil and good; who made fun of his eccentric tastes in everything; who told him he will always remember the debt he thinks he owes Magnus for saving his life.

There is no escaping now. There is no soft hazel, looking at him with kindness and patience. There is no protection and cushion from the outside world. There are no soft and encouraging words, telling him that everything will be alright and that he can do it, if he just shares the burden that is drowning him.

Because Raphael knows. He knows about evil and darkness, about blood and thirst, about giving up and destruction.

“Raphael.”

The name sounds foreign on his tongue. It is a name he thought he would never utter again, lost in the immense void he created for the few friends he ever had, their loved faces dissolving in the black darkness.

“You need to come with us.” There is a finality in the vampire’s tone that doesn’t give the chance of any escape.

He watches as Raphael enters his room, confident and strong, reminding him of an old life and a different future. He hasn’t changed. He’s always the same Raphael, straightforward and charismatic. Catarina is right behind him, looking at him with a perceptive expression. She knows he is better, but perhaps not enough to finally talk about his intimate demons and face reality once and for all.

“Someone opened a demonic hole in the city. Hundreds of demons are free in the mundane world. They are assaulting and killing everyone they meet.”

Not a visit to catch up on his condition, then. He knew, however, that something like this could happen. It’s the perfect occasion for them to nudge him back towards his old life.

Catarina steps aside, stopping next to the table, not far, yet not too close. “I’m going to seal the hole but we need help with the demons. We need you.”

“You don’t. I can’t be of any help.” He tries to sound normal, hiding the hurt surging inside him, knowing that there is nothing he can do, that his beautiful, heavenly and shielded time with Alexander, distant from any problem and anguish, is over. Surely, Catarina will understand. She knows he’s not ready, that he needs some more time to find the courage to tell her about what happened, to understand what to do with his existence.

A harsh sigh escapes from Raphael’s lips. “If half of the things Catarina told me are true, then you _have to_ come with us.”

“Then you should also know that I have no magic anymore.” He turns completely towards them, his back straight and his head high. He will try to sound and look as composed and sure of himself as he can, even though a war of emotions has started inside him, hope, sadness and anxiety blending together.

“You know that is not true. Your eyes are glamoured,” Catarina’s tone of voice is soothing, the words almost pleading.

Magnus stiffens visibly. His hands curl into fists, her sympathy awakening a dormant rage.

“Do you think I’m lying?”

He forces those words out, clipped by his swelling anger.

Reality is finally reaching him, clawing at the hope Alexander managed to blossom inside him, ravaging it wildly while shattering his heart. Of course they don’t believe him. He had been their enemy for months. They will never trust him again.

“Of course not!” Catarina reacts immediately, taking a step towards him. She stops herself, her face worried, when she sees his expression darken.

“Don’t be a fool. Even if you can’t reach it, there is still magic in you, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to hide your real eyes.” Raphael is less compassionate in his reply. “You probably hid it somewhere inside you to stupidly punish or deprive yourself.”

There is a sudden rush of air around him and Raphael is in front of him, only inches apart, looking him straight in the eyes. His words blast into him like a hammer. He recognizes the valid reasoning in them, the rational part of his mind accepting the truth. Yet, there is still an obstinate and somber part of him that wants to deny them, whispering that his weakness is the mere cause of all of his problems.

“Magnus.” Another plea in Catarina’s voice. He knows why when he glances at her, forcing his attention on someone else and not himself. He is clenching is jaw with too much strength, his teeth aching. His knuckles are white, his fists tight as if ready to defend himself or attack an enemy. His body is too rigid, his lungs screaming at him to take a deep breath, release his rage and be more sensible about it all.

“Your Shadowhunter is there.”

“Raphael!”

His brow furrows in confusion when he hears his friends speak almost at the same time, Catarina chastising Raphael. His eyes capture Catarina’s pale and worried face while she alternatively looks at Raphael and Magnus, as if waiting for one of them to explode; they shift then to the vampire, noticing his calm demeanor.

His own body, on the other hand, has started to tremble.

 _His_ _Shadowhunter_.

 _There_.

“Catarina didn’t want to tell you because she knows how important he is to you and she didn’t know how you would react. But I am telling you now.”

There is a faint sound in his ears, a ringing that is gaining power every passing second. His gaze is fixed on Raphael’s eyes, his words savaging his heart. “If you don’t do something, maybe you’ll let your Shadowhunter die. Is that what you want?”

 _You will let him die_. Like he had abandoned his warlock children, leaving them without a guide. Like he killed all those innocent people, Shadowhunters, Downworlders, and mundanes alike, without a single flicker of conscience. Like he almost destroyed himself when he decided he wasn’t worth of living anymore.

“No.” A whispered, faltering sound, mirroring is shuddering body.

Alexander has saved him. He would do anything, _anything_ , to protect him. Even shatter his heart all over again. Even undergo the same, terrible torture he experienced. Even give his soul and mind back to the Greater Demons.

He would do anything.

“Good.”

A strong, cold hand grips his healthy shoulder; a pair of brilliant black eyes anchoring him and telling him to hold onto sanity.

“Let’s go then”.

 

***

 

The first thing he notices is how the air is different outside. He has been so used to the one in the safe house, freshness always seeping through from the open windows. Despite that, being outside feels completely different.

He takes some tentative steps while the portal closes behind their backs. The crisp breeze of autumn enfolds him brutally, crashing the tight hold he had on his limbs before the transfer. It’s like his body is being shaken by a furious, invisible force, threatening to destroy and disperse all of his resolve.

He blinks hastily, trying to clear his mind.

He wish he hadn’t.

The sun is setting. There is an uncanny violet colour covering the sky: the red shades of the twilight are merging with the blue navy of the already converted night-sky.

On the ground, the cobalt and the mauve are attracted to another colour: crimson.

There is blood all around them.

Dark red, glowing from an inner dark light, mocking him, taunting him with those foolish, false promises and scattered desires.

How could he have thought that it was over? That he could go back to being _normal_ one day, even if he was weighed down by the guilt that will never leave him? How could he have thought that having someone as pure and innocent as Alexander would have been enough to wash away all of the hideous stains on his soul? He is a fiend, after all. Nothing, _nothing_ , as full of light and brilliant as Alexander’s soul will ever heal it. He will only corrupt it, ruining the radiant goodness inside him.

Someone is choking him.

His throat is closing painfully; his chest feels heavy, moving too fast; his lungs fail at drawing in more air, strangling his breathing.

There is blood all around him.

It’s washing the cold concrete, luring him into crouching and brushing his fingers through it. It’s calling him, whispering odd and frightening words, telling him to wet his lips with just a single drop and remember. Remember the joy he felt when he had all the power, the freedom he had in giving up his mind, other people making decisions for him, his conscience released of the neverending guilt guiding his decisions.

A harsh intake escapes his mouth when he feels a sudden agonizing ache in his injured shoulder: the laceration from the arrow seems to grow, ripping through his skin, reaching inside his chest to shred his heart.

 _They_ will find him. They will get him. They will bring him back there and–

“Magnus!”

His body shudders, the worried cry piercing through his slipping mind. He would recognize that voice anywhere.

His eyes burn for a second when he forces them to focus on his surroundings.

Then he sees him.

Alexander.

He’s crouched on the street across from him, on the left; his right hand is on the wall beside him as if he’s trying to gather enough strength to stand up. His left hand is gripping his beloved bow, the quiver on his back empty.

The cold wind lashes abruptly between them, tousling Alexander’s black hair even more, framing his pale and concerned features.

Magnus’s heart stops beating.

There is blood on Alexander’s face. A thick rivulet of crimson is gliding down, starting from his left temple, slithering on his cheekbone, stealing a kiss from the corner of his cheek and beautiful mouth, to finally descend on his chin and plunge in heavy drops onto the pavement of the street.

Magnus’s body rushes forward, compelled by his instincts.

He _has to_ protect him.

Safety. He needs to get him to safety.

He stops in the middle of the deserted streets, barely registering how Raphael and other Shadowhunters are engaged in a battle behind him; Catarina is somewhere far, trying to close the bridge between their dimension and the demons’.

Alexander is standing up carefully, his eyes clouding for an instant, dizzy from the injury on his head.

All of a sudden, there is only a strange calm in Magnus’s mind. His body is still fighting the panic that has captured his senses, but his thoughts are clear and determined.

His healthy arm is raising slowly, his fingers spreading. His feet plant themselves on the concrete, finding a steady balance. His jaw clenches firmly, his eyes finding its target.

A shadow has revealed itself behind Alexander.

He feels a pricking sensation in his stomach. He imagines narrow, cobalt lines connecting through his body, reaching his hectic heart, shifting to wrap themselves on his raised arm, brushing his fingers.

He releases a deep breath, the burning sensation in his eyes coming back, intensified.

His magic surges, called to protect the man he has learned to love, manifesting in deep blue flames, blasting precisely towards its target. It finds it immediately, with no difficulty, no obstacle, eager to finally being set free in the world once again.

He’s lost in the sensation. He knows his magic is too powerful, bottled up after weeks of disuse; it’s feasting on the demon, killing it in mere seconds, sizzling noisily while turning its skin into ashes.

A tremor starts in his spread fingers, his magic finally extinguishing itself. He’s aware of a shocked face turning toward him, basked in dying cobalt flames. The battle around them has died as well. There are no demons left: Catarina managed to seal the hole. They are safe.

However, this is the end.

The end of their beautiful connection. The end of their daily talks, their seeking gazes, their unending curiosity.

His golden cat eyes shift towards the astonished hazel ones. He drinks in the sight of his handsome archer, one last time, crystallizing his dazzling features in his mind. He will hold their time together close to his heart, forever.

The trembling in his arm increases when he turns it slightly to the right, calling his recovered magic once more. A portal takes shape at once.

Alexander’s eyes shift towards it, understanding changing his surprised expression.

“Magnus!” Another cry while he starts moving towards him, advancing unsteadily.

He doesn’t wait for his hateful, condemning words. He doesn’t wait for the horror to creep into his eyes and into his usually soothing voice. He doesn’t wait for the inevitable rejection after seeing how evil and unnatural his magic is.

Before Alexander manages to reach him, Magnus turns and steps into his portal, closing it tightly behind himself.


	11. Violet Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He should be angry, but the only emotion inside him is an endless sadness."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters to go for a nice conclusion ;) Tell me what you think!

He should be angry.

Angry at himself for losing hold of his control; angry because his magic came back with a vengeance, no matter the safe, blue colour, killing and annihilating like it is used to by now; angry for leaving Alexander like that, hurt and in need.

But he knows. He knows the rejection was ready on his lips. He can even hear the words being voiced, telling him that saving Magnus that day, here at the docks, was an enormous mistake.

He should be angry, but the only emotion inside him is an endless sadness.

He watches, lost and oblivious to the world, how the soft yellow light of the moon and stars is being reflected on the calm, black water of the lake. There is a deafening silence all around him. Even the icy wind is cutting through him without any sound, hitting his heavy body with too much force. His shoulders hunch even more, weary from the emotional burden they carry, as well as the pain from the coldness.

The wind reminds him of one stormy night in London, more than a hundred years ago. He remembers standing on the ledge of Blackfriars Bridge, the same anguish and sorrow draining his heart, savaging his soul. Camille managed to stop him before he had mustered the courage to do anything else. Another mistake. The innocent people he killed are surely cursing him now, regretting those missed opportunities to end his life.

He should go back there. End it once and for all.

The beginning of the life Alexander helped him rebuild is shattered forever. His magic did that. It devastated everything lovely he had gained: every thought of newly discovered love, of never imagined opportunities, of hopeful confessions, of an unsure but alluring future. It manifested, showing everyone who he really is: a demon. A monster disguised as a human being with corrupted powers. Those flames confirmed that his mind is still not healed, that blood has still a hold on him, that killing is what his magic craves for. No matter who he protected, no matter the colour. His magic represents his heritage. He was, is, and always will be a Prince of Hell.

He did that. He destroyed everything when he chose the easy way out, running away from his duties and those people who still seem, somehow, to care about him. But he can’t face the horror and regret in their eyes. It would push him back in the brink of madness, clouding his mind, blurring his thoughts.

His legs almost give in. He stumbles slightly backwards before finding a weak sense of balance again. The wind is too strong and his mind too tired.

He should definitely go back there. Instincts had brought him back here, on the same street at the docks where his life had almost bled away. Here, where everything started, when Alexander found him, caressed his cheek and asked him whether he was okay. Here, where he finally saw his archer up close, wondering about the warmth emanating from him and how it was possible for such a beautiful face to even exist. Here, where he had been pierced by those hazel eyes, making him forget about his dark thoughts and negative feelings, promising him a new beginning together.

His eyes drop towards his closed, right hand. His knuckles are white, his arm and whole body trembling under the pressure of the strong wind and emotions. His fingers unclench slightly, showing him a glimpse of gold and red in the dim light of the stars.

Together.

But not anymore. There won’t be any future together now. He ruined it. His dark and powerful magic ruined it. His cowardice ruined it.

There is no together now. There is nothing.

 

His heart contracts painfully, reminding him of the blazing fire in his left shoulder. The arrow injury seems to have a life of its own, eating through his skin, punishing his flesh for anything evil he has ever done.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, watching the waves playing with each other, witnessing how his body is losing the battle against his emotional fatigue. He gives up controlling the rhythm of his breathing, the air scratching through his lungs, leaving raw marks. His mind is shutting down, the shuddering ruling.

He is aware of his surroundings once again when the panic starts to recede, slowly, painfully, leaving him so dizzy he is sure he will fall and never stand up again. There is a nauseating sensation in the pit of his stomach and a coldness caging his chest. He doesn’t feel anything else.

His tired, golden eyes are suddenly aware of a change.

The violet in the sky is back. It’s less dark and menacing than the night before; the first rays of the sun are flaming through the deep blue.

He should go back… where?

His gaze turns downwards, meeting the grey concrete of the narrow street.

He should pack and go back there, on that bridge. Away, far away. Maybe it will be easier to decide what to do.

 

***

 

He stumbles from the portal, his legs throbbing too much. He is drained.

The dull colours of his old apartment greet him. They seem sad too, forgotten by everyone, forgotten even by time.

The portal closes behind him with a sizzling sound. He just needs to make a few arrangements: take a coat for his frozen limbs, hide his precious gift. He can’t take it with him. He won’t risk ruining that too. His mind will be more at ease if he knows it’s safe, somewhere, where it can be found again.

He tries to take a step ahead, but his body is unresponsive. The trembling is too strong; his breaths leave visible traces in the air, the cold turning into ice and sleet inside him. He can’t focus on anything either: the dizziness is intense, the furniture and the floor swaying dangerously and confusing him even more.

“Hey.”

A raspy exhale escapes from his lips.

He is not alone.

He blinks multiple times to stop the spiraling walls around him.

There, in front of him, a safe distance between them. His heart starts beating frantically, trying to escape his confined cage, as if it wants to reach the man across from him.

Alexander.

There is no blood on his beautiful face anymore. He is pale, however, fatigue marking his features. He is wearing the same clothes as the night before, the bow and quiver discharged near the entrance, leaning against the wall.

Why did he come here instead of resting? Is it so important to tell him how terrified and disgusted he is of Magnus? He knows. He knows it all.

He tries to faintly straighten his back and raise his head. He cloaks himself in silence, deciding to face whatever will happen. He owes it to Alexander and the kindness he showed him.

“Are you okay?”

He hears the concern in the man’s voice, but his mind doesn’t understand it. He watches, weary, as Alexander takes a step towards him, and then another, slowly, his arms at his sides, slightly spread apart, as if to show that he is unarmed, that it’s safe for him to come near.

He absolutely doesn’t understand.

He finally stops, three steps between them. There is no way the worried green in his eyes is there for him.

“I… I didn’t know where to look. I hoped you would come here.”

Why? Why would he come? To release his anger? To scream at him how betrayed he feels that the person he had told all those tales about himself is allied to the enemy he is fighting? That he regrets everything, from saving him to giving him his precious gift?

Why?

“Magnus.”

There is a pleading request in his soothing voice. Magnus shakes his head to clear his sight and understand the expression on Alexander’s face better.

He loses control of the weak hold on his confused mind when he sees the Shadowhunter take another step towards him. His legs move, trying to put some distance between them again. But his body fails. The balance is completely gone, the dizziness back as soon as he tried to move, black dots appearing in his vision, dangerously eating away his sight.

“Magnus.” This time his tone is firmer, stronger, almost commanding.

When he blinks, he’s captured by two scorching hazel eyes, looking at him as if they want to devour his soul. He is silently speaking with his gaze once again while his hands gently cup both of his cheeks, blessing him with some warmth, and, for a moment, stopping the unnerving sensation of having no balance at all.

“It’s okay. We’re okay. Everything is fine.”

He recognizes the words, but he doesn’t grasp their meaning. He feels his brow furrow in confusion, his skin blessed with Alexander’s caresses while his thumbs draw reassuring circles on his cheekbones.

There is a spasm in his throat. “My magic is back.” It’s merely a whisper, but they’re so close, _so close_ , he knows Alexander can hear him. The heat of the other man’s body is seeping through his detached limbs; there is no space between them, their bodies in full contact. Surely, his archer has some kind of magic too: he can feel his strength kissing a line through his tired skin, anchoring him.

“I know. We’ll figure that out. Together.” Although his answer is a soft whisper as well, there is a firmness and power in the last word. It’s telling him that there is no other way, that there is no other scenario, that nothing has changed.

“Do you know who I am?” he murmurs back, trying to make him see, trying to explain why Alexander is reacting all wrong. It should _not_ be like this. He should be angry at him, disappointed, horrified. There shouldn’t be place for kindness and care.

He waits for the hate to appear on Alexander’s face, the revulsion that he’s sure, _so sure_ , has to be there. Those eyes should look at him with contempt and regret, remembering all those wasted days on his bed, waiting for his body and soul to heal.

“You are Magnus Bane. My friend. The one who knows more than most about me. The one who listened to my words every night… D-did you forget?” His piercing eyes move fast, drinking in everything about his face, capturing his cat eyes, his bloodless lips, the jaw between his fingers, his forehead drenched in cold sweat.

Is that a hint of hurt in his lovely voice? Hurt, because he thinks that that time isn’t important for Magnus as well?

“No. I’ll never forget.” He hopes his tone is as strong and adamant as the words resonate inside himself. He needs to make him see that their time together is the best period of his life.

It works: Alexander’s eyes suddenly light up, a soft smile forming on his lips. He watches, stunned, as his expression softens even more, the tenderness in his gaze too much for his bruised heart.

Alexander knows. He knows he panicked. He knows he went back to the dark place in his mind, pushing him back into the darkness.

His archer always knows.

“Good. Let’s go home, then, yeah?” He raises his eyebrow to make clear he expects no answer back, no denial, because he won’t accept any.

He feels Alexander’s hands brush his cheeks delicately, his body melting into his own, his arm coming around his shoulders. He feels the trembling in his limbs intensifying while his eyes just close, Alexander’s hand cupping the back of his neck.

There is a vulnerability to the way this beautiful man embraces him. He can feel their emotions blending into one another: shyness, sadness, hope, delight.

He almost ruined it again, because he is too foolish to read his archer’s behaviour, sure he would react like all the people he thought he loved: by rejecting him, sooner or later, telling him he will never be enough.

He has been so stupid.

“I’m sorry.”

He turns his head, resting his cheek on Alexander’s shoulder. His quivering hands find his waist and they grip his shirt once again, clamping his fingers into fists. He hopes his apology is enough; he hopes his body is speaking loudly enough for his tired mind.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Again.

He feels Alexander’s fingers caressing his back, warming his cold body.

He could stay like this forever. He hopes they will stay like this forever. He can’t let go of him. Not anymore.

He didn’t ruin everything after all. And whatever will happen, he promises to himself here and now, he won’t run again. He will never run again. He has a confession to make.


	12. Emerald Honesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How can he resist? He had wished to find someone like this, before the last year changed his life. How he had wished. He had stopped hoping, but a part of his soul still longed to meet the perfect match, the perfect heart, the one.
> 
> And it finally happened."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy chapter <3

His injury is bleeding again.

He can feel Catarina’s anger through her fingers, no matter the care and attention with which she is trying to heal him. Her words are still swirling in his mind, strengthened by her exasperated and worried tone.

_How could he strain himself like this? How could he portal away without telling them anything? Did he know how worried they were when he disappeared? They thought someone had captured him again, or that he had decided to end his life for some foolish idea he had convinced himself of. Can he stop punishing himself for something that wasn’t even his fault? It was the demons’. And he’s not one. He is a warlock. He is the High Warlock of Brooklyn. Her best friend._

Her words keep on replaying in his head, over and over again, stealing the focus from the discomfort in his body.

Magnus tries to straighten his back under Catarina’s glistening eyes, her anxiety and care dizzying him even more. He feels so sorry for making her worry once more. He forgot again how much his friend cares about him.

While Catarina takes care of his injury, drying the blood that escaped from it since it had reopened the night before, he can’t stop alternating his gaze between her and Alexander. The Shadowhunter is leaning against the wall, next to the table across from his bed, arms crossed on his chest, watching them.

Alexander’s expression is a mix of emotions: his brilliant eyes are still soft and tender, knowing that the fear of losing him made him run away. The skin around them is tight and pale, however; the concern is still obvious in his features. Magnus knows he probably looks terrible: his limbs are still trembling, his temples feverish, cold sweat leaving heavy drops of water from his forehead to his clenched jaw. The cold is threatening to devour the little warmth Alexander shared, encouraged by his half removed robe, forgotten while Catarina is taking care of the wound. Still, he can’t help noticing how tired Alexander looks.

He hadn’t noticed it before, in his old apartment: Alexander’s strong hold on his waist was too distracting; the distressed tone he addressed Catarina with while talking on the phone, telling her where they were, clamped his lips shut and made him concentrate on his own breathing. He didn’t want to succumb to his weakness one more time, so he had kept on clinging onto Alexander’s shirt with his right hand, stealing his courage.

He notices the other man’s fatigue now, and it pierces through his heart, worse than the sharp arrow that injured him. He caused this. His stupidity caused this.

“Go rest.” He hopes his voice is strong enough to change the fierce look on Alexander’s face. Surely, he is noticing the healing is taking too much time.

“I’ll rest here.” There’s a finality in his words that suggests he won’t change his mind. A soft sigh escapes Magnus’s lips: he should be used to his archer’s stubbornness by now, but it always manages to surprise him.

Catarina suddenly steps away, regarding his bandaged shoulder with a critical eye. “It will start to heal properly if you don’t move too much for the next days.” Her eyes shift towards his, her gaze intense. “Understood?”

His lips move without him even noticing, a small smile forming on his face. She put her hands on her hips while subtly chastising him, reminding him of old times and extravagant adventures.

“Yes. I’m sorry I made you worry.” This time his words manage to change someone’s expression: Catarina’s softens, her eyes misting dangerously. His tiny smile dies. He caused enough trouble, he doesn’t deserve her tears.

“Well,” she clears her throat faintly, turning to grab her potions and medical tools. “Sleep. Take a shower only if you don’t feel too dizzy. I’m going to prepare something for your fever to drink in a couple of hours. Rest in the meanwhile.”

She doesn’t wait for his answer; all he can do is watch her retreat and catch a hasty glance she addresses to Alexander, who simply nods back.

He sighs, again, watching the door she closes behind her back, his battered heart feeling content despite the guilt for their concern.

They... care for him. And he almost ruined everything. His selfishness needs to disappear. He can’t go on like this, putting himself and his worthless problems before anyone else. No, not _anyone else_. Before the two people who still haven’t given up on him. Who still care for him, searching for him, healing him, accepting the slowness with which his body is deciding to react and recover. He should have known better. He should know better, from now on.

He hears is own sharp intake when he feels Alexander’s arm circling his back. Sat in his favourite spot on the bed, so close to him, he is catching the fallen, blue robe in his fingers, placing the warm cloth all around him, delicately as not to bother Catarina’s bandages and his ruined shoulder. He can’t make himself breathe while his eyes roam restlessly, his gaze drinking in every detail on Alexander’s face: how there’s a faint redness in his cheeks, the start of a lovely blush; how he is concentrating on closing the robe, his hands meeting in front of Magnus’s chest, the heat of his fingers scorching the material and kissing his skin. Alexander’s gaze is fixed on his own movements, his jaw jarringly clenched, as if deep in a thought he isn’t liking at all.

He hates it. He hates seeing him like this, burdened by something, his eyes clouded instead of shining, his mouth grim instead of gifting him with a smile or an unaware laugh that always restores another small piece of his soul.

“Alexander.” It’s just a whisper to call him back, and it works: Alexander’s eyes widen a bit, looking up at his own. His hands slowly release the hem of his robe, finally resting forgotten on his bent knees between them.

The exquisite colour on his cheeks deepens and expands, embracing his neck and touching the outline of his alluring rune. There’s a hint of shyness in his beautiful eyes, as if Magnus caught him doing something he shouldn’t have done.

Why? It isn’t their first innocent touch, nor it is the first time Alexander glimpses his skin. Maybe he didn’t dwell on it, those times, his sickness stealing his concentration. Maybe something has changed during the last hours, their embrace sealing the blooming of their relationship.

That is what _he_ feels, however. He senses it deep in his heart, his mind for once agreeing instead of deceiving him or hiding the obvious: he has feelings for Alexander. And they didn’t develop because of a sense of gratitude. He has fallen in love with the soul; the kind, gentle, beautiful and selfless soul he has shared with him, telling him all those stories, revealing himself with small gestures and meaningful words, convincing him that he has finally found someone good for his shattered heart. Not another superficial Imasu, not another proud Camille, not another too safe Dot.

Weeks have passed since that fatal day at the docks; months since they first crossed paths. During all this time, he noticed all the hidden traits: how Alexander passionately loves his family and all the people he cares about; how he doesn’t think about himself, but puts whoever is in need first; how he understands immediately that something is wrong with a mere glance.

How can he resist? He had wished to find someone like this, before the last year changed his life. How he had wished. He had stopped hoping, but a part of his soul still longed to meet the perfect match, the perfect heart, _the one_.

And it finally happened.

Yes, something has changed since last night. He ran, fearing rejection, fearing the hate in Alexander’s eyes, because it would have been too much for him. And he clearly knows why, now, after the thousands of emotions and words Alexander conveyed with a single embrace; after he said, firmly, once again, that they would continue their life together, no matter what happens.

Yet. This is what _he_ feels.

“What happened?”

They are still staring at each other, at their souls, when Alexander shatters the silence with hushed words. Magnus can’t move to grasp his precious gift, safe in the pocket of his trousers, and anchor his reality: Alexander’s body is so close, he doesn’t want to diminish his brave gesture.

Thus, he decides to distract himself, shifting his gaze to Alexander’s strong hands. His own fingers move towards them, his index finger playfully caressing the other man’s knuckles while he tries to formulate a coherent and satisfying answer.

Is he asking what happened yesterday, during the fight, when he thought his hunger for blood had come back? Or is he asking about the bittersweet reaction he has towards his magic, needing it because he wants to protect Alexander, but hating it for the havoc it can cause? Is he asking about a year ago and his torture in Edom?

The vagueness is there on purpose, he knows it. He is giving him the freedom to choose, to decide which question to answer. Another gift. Another hint of his shimmering soul.

He closes his eyes, a brief moment to gather his courage, and then he opens them again, watching his own fingers continue to play with Alexander’s knuckles.

“There was too much blood.” There. He said it. His fingers stop their soothing movement, his mind too preoccupied with Alexander’s reaction.

He feels his chest expand to gather enough air, another self-encouragement, and then he glances up, meeting the stormy green and brown, watching him with affection. There is no concern this time, no judgment, no fatigue. His archer is nudging him to continue, open to any confession.

“It reminded me of... when I was controlled. And of the first weeks there. The blood was... everywhere.” It’s difficult to find the right words but he hates the hesitation he hears in his own voice nonetheless.

“How did you... break their control?” Alexander glances down, towards their hands, resting close to each other, and then up again, eyes curious and attentive.

“Do you know how it works?” They never talked about this. They somehow avoided the subject successfully, never mentioning the other rogue warlocks, never addressing the issue of his past.

A tiny sense of unease starts spreading in his chest. He tries to breathe, forcing his lungs to expand and contract in a normal rhythm. It’s another trial for them. What will happen to their connection when Alexander will know everything?

“We know powerful warlocks are regularly being abducted. Catarina found some sort of old incantation called Dark Spell that allows Greater Demons to control them. But we... never, you know, saved one.” The other man’s words tear and slash fresh scars open in his mind.

A shudder runs through his limbs, dying as suddenly as it began. He knows he missed one or two breaths, the dizziness intensifying when he hears everything that happened uttered so clearly and directly. His eyes moved in the meanwhile, gazing at the table, unseeing.

He remembers too much, and too little. He remembers a trap, one stormy and forgotten night; he remembers demons surrounding him, and the threatening presence of two Greater Demons. He remembers _fighting_ , fighting with all his strength and magic, and failing. There is darkness afterwards and only fleeting but intense feelings. The neverending pain of the first weeks. And the strong, sharp scent of blood. He remembers the agony too well and how, at one point, he couldn’t take it anymore.

And it was over.

“Hey.”

His heart knows that voice too well, so his body reacts by forcing his eyes back into the caring hazel. His chest is cold once again, his breathing harsh to his own hearing. But there is warmth sipping through his fingers. He glances down. Alexander’s steady hands are on his own, his thumbs drawing reassuring circles on the back of his hands, a soothing gesture his archer offers him every time he understands Magnus is upset.

The guilt he feels for stealing the other man’s strength is always there, but there is also delight, hidden, preciously protected, in realizing how someone knows him so well to interpret his behaviour and perceiving his emotions.

He watches longingly their entwined hands, and he mirrors Alexander’s gesture, drawing small caresses on the other man’s hands.

“You.” He blinks, and then glances up, meeting the confused hazel. “You broke the control. I started getting my mind back when I met you.”

He knew he wouldn’t understand at first. He follows how Alexander’s confusion, obvious in his eyes, changes to hesitation, to finally settle onto curiosity again.

“Me? Are you sure?” He tilts his head slightly, his expression pensive, as if remembering those three crucial meetings.

“Do you remember the first time we looked at each other?” Magnus smiles a little, knowingly, no matter the painful memories.

No pause; Alexander’s answer is firm and sure. “Yes.”

Magnus’s smile widens slightly, loving his certainty.

“I... I thought...”

His eyes capture those lips for a second, and then notice the faint red returning on Alexander’s features when he tries to convey his memory. Ah, yes. It seems the right time has finally arrived.

“I thought you were the most beautiful man I’d ever seen,” he continues for him.

He keeps on smiling a little, trying to reassure his archer. But he knows a taint of sadness has veiled his eyes. Here it comes. The turning point. Did Magnus understand correctly? Maybe he only noticed what he _wanted_ to notice. Maybe it won’t be different from the other times. Maybe Alexander doesn’t feel like he does.

“Wha...” Alexander’s reaction is adorable, as everything about him is. Magnus feels a hidden joy: he is finally the one who surprises his Shadowhunter. Because he is utterly astonished: he blinks fast, his hands abruptly stiff and motionless in his, his back straightening suddenly.

“Let me spell it out for you. I wanted to see you again, even if I was still under the spell and the control of others. For almost a century… I’ve closed myself off to feeling anything for anyone. Man or woman. You’ve unlocked something in me.” His feared and tormenting confession is in the open at last. His heart seems to finally feel lighter, not heavy and painful like moments ago, as if an enormous weight has been lifted by his words. He is breathing better, the unease dissipating. Whatever the outcome will be, he will have no regrets.

Alexander, on the other hand, seems less at peace. His mouth is slightly open, as if too startled to control his reaction; his eyes are moving fervently over Magnus’s face, probably assuring himself that no, he isn’t lying, and no, he isn’t joking either.

Magnus is waiting. Waiting for condemning words, telling him he can’t be serious. Waiting for more silence, and a gradual distance between them, as if nothing happened, as if they never met. Waiting, hoping, for shy but similar words spoken back to him, telling him he feels it too, he feels that they are right for each other, that they may have finally found the love they sought but never found.

He waits. But nothing would have prepared him for Alexander’s reaction.

He feels, with a pang of anguish, Alexander’s fingers extricating from his, his heat suddenly gone, leaving him in stinging coldness. He glances down, following the movement, his heart cracking dangerously, rifts cutting it deep.

He remains, stiff, in the same position, watching his own open fingers, as if they were still waiting for their own counterparts to come back.

He feels, but doesn’t see at first, Alexander’s hands latching back on the hem of his blue robe. His eyebrows spring up, surprised, catching the fierce hazel piercing his golden when the other man draws Magnus’s body closer to his.

And then it happens.

The hateful distance is eaten up by their bodies, and Alexander’s lips are unexpectedly on his.

His kiss tastes like the emerald in his eyes: it’s intense, earnest, demanding. There is no shyness when his lips capture his bottom one, tasting it like they waited for eternity.

After an instant of bewilderment, his own body reacts: his hands rush up, clenching Alexander’s shirt, feeling the warmth of his waist through the cloth; his head tilts slightly and his lips respond to his archer’s, tasting them.

And his soul is complete.

He feels his heart and Alexander’s beat fast, _too fast_ , while tasting one another, their tongues dancing together, their faces caressing each other, their breaths teasing each other, their hands savaging the grip they have on each other’s clothes, as if both of them need to anchor themselves to something real, tangible, or they would lose themselves in the beauty and fervor of the moment.

Magnus closes his eyes, savouring the flavor of those sinful lips he has been obsessing about. He dreamt about them too, but nothing, no dream or innocent imagination, could compare to this.

He sees the emerald behind his eyelids. Warm, hopeful, promising. It reminds him of the green lightning piercing his mind, weeks before, the manifestation of Alexander’s eyes in his scattered thoughts, destroying the remains of the Dark Spell. It reminds him of second chances, of a new beginning, and fearlessness. It reminds him of his archer.

It’s Alexander who breaks their wild kiss, Magnus’s eyes snapping open at the same time while his lips follow Alexander’s, as if they still don’t have enough. He will, in fact, never have enough. But sweet Alexander, who is breathing hard as much as he is, stops him; his eyes watch him completely unguarded, drinking him in as if Magnus is an uncovered treasure, a fallen star brightening his life. He knows his eyes are doing the same, silently speaking of unbelievable gifts and precious sunshine basking his mind.

They both want more, but their ragged breaths remind them of taking it slowly, of Magnus’s feverish body still too weak, of all the time in the world they have.

It’s still Alexander who surprises him, again, with his neverending courage. He leans in, their foreheads touching, enjoying each other’s warmth and new intimacy.

He closes his eyes, trying to calm his thrilled heart.

He can’t believe it. He can’t believe it happened.

He opens his eyes once more, Alexander’s trembling hands still grasping his robe. Magnus shifts then, his fingers opening and drawing a soothing caress on his archer’s waist, finally embracing his back. He rests his cheek on Alexander’s left shoulder, his ear near his heart. He smiles, pleased, when he hears the frantic beating, knowing he has caused it.

Alexander accepts his weight, as if they have embraced a thousand times, and puts his own arms around him, his right hand burying itself in his hair.

They could stay like this for eternity, without a word, their bodies and breaths talking for them, their minds and hearts functioning as one.

It feels right. It finally feels right.

Magnus’s smiles widens slightly while he closes his eyes, settling in the embrace.

He has found the one.


	13. Grey Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This morning, he announced to both Catarina and Alexander that he wanted to go back to his old apartment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and leaving such beautiful comments. This was my first fic and your insight and words meant everything <3

It’s difficult to go back to reality.

He knew he couldn’t hide anymore, not after what happened with his magic three days before; not after what happened with Alexander.

So he tried to force his body to rest and heal. The results aren’t perfect and he still gets dizzy if he stands too much, but his limbs definitely feel less heavy and tired.

This morning, he announced to both Catarina and Alexander that he wanted to go back to his old apartment. They helped enough; it is time he doesn’t burden their shoulders: they have many people to care for and serious problems to solve, being involved in the war against the Circle and the Greater Demons. Thus, he thinks it’s better if he just starts to get his life back together little by little, hidden behind the safety of his warded walls.

It was a difficult decision to make. Nonetheless, he knows it’s for the best. Catarina was always checking on him several times during the day to make sure he was alright; she was tired and worried all the time. His friend deserves a good rest and a week off. Alexander was needed in his Institute as the leader of his people; his parabatai had a bad experience some days before as well, so it was right for him to be there to support his brother.

He reasoned with them, after seeing the denial in both their expressions: _no, he wasn’t bothering them; no, they cared for him so of course it wasn’t a burden to check on him and stay to talk; of course they have other obligations, but Magnus is important in their lives too, so he’s not less valuable_. He listened to all their arguments, his chest warming at their affectionate words.

Still.

He promised himself he wouldn’t be scared anymore. Hence, this was the first, right step toward a new life without fear: go back to his apartment and resume his everyday routine. Both of his friends are welcome to visit whenever they want and Catarina already promised to come the next day to take care of his still bandaged shoulder.

He knows he’s not ready to reclaim his High Warlock title; Catarina has been doing an incredible job as his official substitute. She said she couldn’t wait to get rid of it and return to be a nurse permanently. Despite that, he needs more time. More time to get used to being free; to understand his magic better; to understand _himself_ better. Even more, he needs time to savour the bliss he feels whenever he thinks of Alexander.

There is a soft light in his heart. Darkness is still present, sometimes prevailing over any reasoned thought, stopping his movements, threatening his sight with mist and his body with shudders. However, there is a light in his heart now, fighting all the dark. His soul is basked in grey, not too bright, not too shadowy; it’s a soothing colour brushing through his mind, reminding him that nothing is easy in life but that he can do it anyway, if his archer is next to him.

After a last reassurance to both of them, he took his clothes, and, using Catarina’s portal, he went back to his apartment. His friends were finally taking care of their own personal lives and he would do the same.

 

He looks around him, his living room in utter chaos. He doesn’t know if he can handle a redecoration, but the itch to do it is pressing him. He needs new colours, new styling, furniture in new places.

So instead of dwelling on how to resume his life after a year of absence, he just starts moving tables and couches; he brings down pictures and hides dull colours. Hours pass, morning drifting to afternoon, afternoon shifting to twilight. He needs to take several breaks in the middle: drink a glass of water, eat small and frequent meals Catarina prepared for him, sit down to let his body rest, his breathing often too unsteady. He is careful now and he tries not to push himself too much, in respect of the friends who are still taking care of him.

He drops a soft green cover on his couch and he moves backwards to survey his half done work. He sighs; it will take him a lot of time, but there is nothing else he has to do, really.

He frowns, the thought unsettling him.

Raphael visited; despite that, no one else, with the exception of Catarina and Alexander, was aware of his return. Yes, Alexander’s siblings knew, but they were sworn to secrecy. No one else he knew before his abduction are waiting for him, nor seem to miss him in particular. And, without his High Warlock position, he has no duty and no obligations. In the past, he would have rejoiced: it could be the perfect time for a quick visit to a foreign country, or a relaxing holiday somewhere near his beloved Brooklyn; he could even hunt for the perfect treasure missing from his collections. That, however, was what the old Magnus Bane would have done. The new one is... less daring.

He sighs, tired all of a sudden, trying to clear away the dark thoughts clouding his mind. He glances down to his lightly trembling hands and he notices how a ray of red sunset is caressing them, entering from the open windows of the balcony. He curls his fingers into loose fists, and leaves the havoc of his living room behind, walking slowly towards his new destination.

The balcony is a blessing: a soft, cold breeze welcomes him, banishing his anxiety. He watches, mesmerized, the view in front of him, the city slowly falling asleep with the sky, people going back to their homes to finally rest, the shadows following them from afar while the beautiful colours of the twilight embrace the tall buildings.

How he missed this sight.

He stays there, minutes, hours, his arms resting peacefully on the rail of the balcony, his body leaning against it while the breeze gets colder and harsher. He loses himself in memories. How many times did he watch the same view, years before, asking himself whether he would ever find someone to share small gestures and light touches with? How many times did he question his decisions, wondering whether it was finally time to leave everyone and everything behind, and move to somewhere far and unreachable? How many times did he ask himself why he was feeling so lonely even when surrounded by the familiar and reassuring walls of his home?

He feels a painful pressure in his chest while he tries to exhale slowly. He tears his eyes away from the black sky, shifting below.

There is nothing in his apartment.

No light, no voices, no noise, no sound. There is no reassurance, no comfort, no heat, no welcome.

His shoulders drop slightly, solitude surrounding him.

He can get used to it. He _has to_ get used to it. There is no other way. He promised himself, he promised–

There is a sudden noise coming from his front door.

His back straightens, his eyes blinking fast, as if he is somehow waking from a sad dream.

His body turns slightly, his profile half hidden in the shadow of the night. He watches, confused, his heart beating too fast, as the front door opens.

There is a tall man entering, elegant and handsome. He is turning the light on while leaving a bag on the floor, bending gracefully; he is crossing the small hallway now, entering the half redecorated living room while shrugging his jacket off, his face moving left and then right, as if searching for something.

Or someone.

He knows the man has found what he was seeking when he stops right in front of the balcony windows, his thoughtful and serious expression melting away, gifting him with a small smile and infinite tenderness.

“Hey.”

His Alexander.

Magnus turns completely, facing him. The drowning sensation is gone, his breathing resuming its normal rhythm. His mind is almost dazed: there is nothing else he can do but watch his fascinating archer walking towards him. The light of the living room and the one pouring from the stars seem to be attracted to Alexander as well: his beautiful hair is kissed by soft rays, his hazel eyes gleaming, piercing through him with that intense stare he will never be used to.

“Hi.” He hopes the other man manages to grasp his soft greeting. He can’t help but whisper: he doesn’t want to ruin the beautiful vision he’s witnessing.

He feels a delicate touch on his arm when Alexander stops in front of him, mere inches away. His breathing has stopped once again. He can’t believe this man is his.

Alexander seems to know his thoughts, however, because he slowly moves closer, his other hand raising to brush softly over Magnus’s cheek, as if he is reassuring himself that Magnus is right there in front of him, real, alive.

There is a silky pressure on his lips when his stunning Shadowhunter places a soft kiss on his mouth. Magnus’s body answers with a pleasured shivering, as always, when his archer is near.

How he wishes he would react swiftly, capture those lips and taste them thoroughly once again. But he can’t, because Alexander has moved once again, the hand on his arm sliding towards his own, leaving a scorching trail behind. His fingers finally find his, weaving fervently.

“Are you alright?”

He will never get used to his care either, always making sure he’s well, both physically and emotionally.

Magnus lets out another long exhale, his mind still enthralled. His mouth curls, a soft smile forming.

He answers by moving even closer, their bodies touching, their fingers caressing each other’s hands. He recognizes, there, in the deep of Alexander’s green and brown eyes, the reflection of his own heart. This man captured it weeks before. He just hopes he will never let it go.

“I’m fine now that you’re here.”

He rests his forehead on Alexander’s while his other hand searches for his.

Yes, he feels perfect now that his love is here. There is nothing he needs more in his life: Alexander will always be enough.


End file.
